Unwell
by sodoto
Summary: Sequel to “Neurotic”. Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do?
1. Chapter the First

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**Unwell**

* * *

Sequel to "Neurotic". Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Charmed does not belong to me. 

**Note: **"Neurotic" can be found in my profile -probably best if you read that first, although "Unwell" - written as a jigsaw with deliberately missing salient pieces of information - can be read stand alone. "Unwell" takes place almost sixteen years after "Neurotic".

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**Chapter the First**

**"Assumptions"**

* * *

_"Tell them we've all got meanness in us... but tell them that we have good in us, too. And the only thing worth living for is the good."_

Billie Letts, "Where The Heart Is."

* * *

He felt like a dork. 

There wasn't any other word that could describe how he felt at that precise moment, and besides, why look for a different word when "dork" worked so well?

The suit didn't fit well, and hung awkwardly on his lanky, too-tall frame. The music teacher had muttered something about how skinny he was _don't they feed you at home, Chris?_ and how it had belonged to her _poor Andrew, lost in the war_.

He could feel the open stares from the littler kids in the audience, and was painfully aware that he desperately needed a haircut. One kid was even pointing, and Chris patiently ignored the attention, waiting for the good-natured teacher to introduce him. She thought she was doing best by him, making him come and sing here, the _mayor_ was here for god's sake, but she didn't know hell would probably be raised at home when he got in.

Late, with no good excuse for where he'd been, no good excuse for missing his brother's basketball game, going on at the same time barely fifty feet away.

Chris stiffened his shoulders in the ill-fitting suit, wishing he'd just told his teacher the truth. That no, they weren't having money troubles and that's why he couldn't afford a suit, but he hadn't told his parents he was even good enough to sing in a concert in front of the mayor.

And he hadn't told her because it was a rather bizarre thing to have to admit. What kid, who could sing like he could, _wouldn't_ tell their parents?

_Because they have too much to worry about. Dad, the way he is. Averting the apocalypse every other week, Wyatt's games, Adam's fluctuating abilities..._

Chris fought the inward laugh threatening to bubble out, and inwardly heard his name, the title of his piece and bowed perhaps a little too awkwardly, a little too late, and yeah - dork fit just about right.

He knew he was lying, even to himself. Those fake reasons, even if he'd explained to Mrs. Williamson about magic and Whitelighters and being the middle son of a Charmed One, at least sounded less like he was a social reject at home as well as school.

The thing was, his mom, his aunts, his brothers, even his cool Uncle Perry who trained witches in martial arts and how to control their powers, who always knew the right thing to say at the right time… they all had somehow decided they knew so much about him. What his favourite food was, what kind of trouble he was likely to get into, what kind of girl he liked…

He felt his face heat up as he stood by the piano, barely remembering the breathing exercises he'd been taught.

His family already seemed to know about him, before he said anything. It drove him absolutely bananas. So the more they seemed to know about him, like his love for playing the piano, their assumption he wanted to grow up and be a music teacher, or teach magic and martial arts like Uncle Perry, the more he explored the other things. The things he wouldn't dare admit he wanted to do.

Like what he was doing now, getting ready to sing.

When he joined the Dramatic and Performing Arts club at school, everyone at home had been surprised, but not too surprised when they quickly assumed he'd be playing the piano for them. After all, he _was _a good pianist.

A _great_ pianist, if he said so himself. He'd be playing for himself, if Mrs. Williamson hadn't looked so dejected when he tentatively voiced that idea.

Somehow, it all usually worked out. Wyatt's basketball games (his older brother was a holy terror on the basketball court) were either on at the same time as the shows he starred in put on by school, or were on at the same time as the football games, where Chris' other rebellious hobby took full shine.

His family just assumed he was jealous of Wyatt and didn't want to see him play.

But that was fine with him.

If his family was going to assume they knew him, Chris was going to make sure when they finally opened their eyes to see him, they were going to get one hell of a shock.

He looked down at his hands to steady himself, and looked at them, disconcerted for a second. They were pale, but he hadn't realised they were _quite_ as pale as all that. _Almost as pale as Aunty Paige, _he thought, stunned for a second.

His bones stuck out, too, which again was whole of the "being a dork" routine at high school.

Shaking his head slightly to dispel the _thinking _that just wouldn't stop, Chris looked at the music. For a second, the notes and staves knotted together, making an inky scrawl at the page. He took a deep breath and then as Mrs. Williamson's fingers hit the opening chords the music straightened itself out.

He began to sing, letting his now settled Tenor voice ghost reverently over the opening lyrics. His voice danced over the words, and he felt the familiar rush of _home_ as the music filled the air and he lost himself in the music. He held the audience spellbound without magic. It was a rush. It always was. It was worth the bother he got into at home.

Well worth it.

He sang a blaze along the crescendos, teased out the diminuendos, enunciated the complicated scale runs in song with ease. It was just patterns, and emotion, tied up in his voice. God knew what he'd do if he lost his ability to play or sing, because he knew he'd go crazy.

Music was what kept him sane.

Silence hung in the air, made all the more stark by his stilled fingers, and then the applause began. Loud, and Chris could see the mayor clapping too, and felt a small rush of pride that made him almost instantly feel sick.

No one could even know about this.

He stood at Mrs. Williamson's prompting, bowed again, and, grabbing his music, walked at a slow pace out of the hall.

Music tucked under his arm, Chris headed to the abandoned history classroom to change. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Mrs. Williamson standing there, smiling. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, seemed less harsh in its bob cut than normal, and her face seemed kind.

"I'll leave the suit in your office," Chris said hurriedly, thinking that was what she was after.

She shook her head, the smile still playing on her face. "Just wanted to say you did good, kiddo. Your parents would have been so proud, if they could have come tonight."

Chris tensed, but smiled and nodded anyway. He wondered idly at how useful the 'smile and nod' manoeuvre really was. It had gotten him through life _this_ far, sure enough.

"And you're definitely getting a lift home?" Mrs. Williamson said as she turned to go back into the hall.

"Yeah," Chris said, "I'll be safe."

It was enough to reassure her. "Sure. See you at your next lesson, kiddo."

She disappeared back into the room. Chris waited for a second to be sure no one was around, and pelted into the classroom, pulling the suit off quickly and folding it. He scrambled back into his everyday clothes, jammed the music back into his rucksack, and Orbed.

He took time to take a detour over by the Sports Hall, to see that the lights were off. The game was over. _Crap_. Speeding up his method of travel, he re-appeared fully inside his small basement bedroom. It was dark, and very quiet. He closed his eyes to see if he could sense the others, and sighed in relief when he felt them still a fair distance away.

Christ sank onto his bed in relief, running both of his hands through his too-long hair. He pulled his fingers away damp, and winced. He'd sweated a _lot_. He hadn't even realised he'd been that nervous. _But who wouldn't be? That was the _mayor_! And you didn't even drop a note or forget one word..._

Allowing himself a few seconds to breathe, he stood up, grabbed a clean pair of boxers, some sweatpants and a clean t-shirt. Bundling them together, he ran up the stairs to the ground floor, and skidded up the stairs to the single bathroom of the house. Quickly, aware that the family was a couple of minutes away, he turned the shower on hard.

The water heated up quickly, and he stripped down, pushing himself under the too-hot spray. Groping blindly for one of the generic bottles of shower gel, he squeezed a handful of the cold liquid into one hand. He could feel it froth up and run off his body. Repeating the same with a blob of someone's shampoo, he cleaned his hair as quickly as he could, before turning his face into the scalding water to wash away the bubbles.

Skidding out of the bath, and landing quite awkwardly, jarring his elbow against the doorframe, he reached back inside to turn the shower off. Rubbing himself off with a towel one-handed, he tidied up the shower area with the other hand, grimacing when he realised he'd used Aunt Phoebe's lavender shower gel and Aunt Paige's shampoo-with-conditioner. His hair was not only long, it was going to go _fluffy_.

Great.

Maybe one of these days he'd open his eyes in the shower and use the shower gel and shampoo Mom bought for the three of them, and not end up smelling like a sweet pot-pourri. Towelling himself dry, Chris slid the boxers and sweatpants on, and then squeezed the worst of the water from his brown hair. He yanked the t-shirt from his head, and dropped the towel, pushing it with his foot over the floor to dry it off a bit. He picked it up, flung it over the radiator and skidded barefoot out onto the landing.

He hurried down the stairs, banging his _other_ elbow hard, wishing the staircase didn't curve like that, and made it into the hallway just in time for _something _to crash into his back.

He fell awkwardly, his back burning in pain, and he twisted as he fell. He landed on his arm, and looked up to see a black, ugly, vaguely human-shaped demon hulking over him.

Chris heard the door open, but managed to fling his hand out, using his powers to make the demon stumble a little as he rolled out of the way. In time for his mom to step forward and then blast the hell out of it.

He smiled weakly at her. "Hi. How did it go?"

Piper smiled back faintly, her forehead creased slightly. "I'll let the returning hero tell you."

Chris climbed unsteadily to his feet, knowing he was going to have one _hell_ of a bruise on his back later from the fall, along with the ones on his elbow just from being generally clumsy, and offered the same weak smile to his brother as Wyatt burst triumphantly through the door, his curly blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"Twenty-five to us, six to them!" Wyatt crowed triumphantly, dropping his sports bag onto the floor and kicking it to the side with his foot. "And Adam sat through it all perfectly!"

The twelve-year old blond Wyatt referred to poked his head around Wyatt shyly. Chris beamed a bit wider at his younger brother as Paige and Phoebe bustled in and started to hang up their coats.

"You did?" Chris stepped forwards, and Adam giggled a little. "Well done." Then, to his older brother: "I'm _glad_ you kicked ass. I had no doubt."

Wyatt's grin was pure-100 watt. "Yeah." He pushed past Chris to the kitchen, and twisted back. "Any chance of food?"

"Cheeseburger!" Adam piped up. Chris had to smother an actual genuine smile at his younger brother's enthusiasm. Especially when it came to Piper's cheeseburgers.

Piper rolled her eyes. "You boys think with your stomachs! All right, you two, into the kitchen, and chop the onion while I make a call to your father about the demon, 'k?" She looked happy and content.

"I'll do that while you make the burgers," Wyatt offered, calling back from his position near the door. Before she could answer, he'd closed his eyes and started to glow blue. Piper rolled her eyes again, and looked at her sisters.

"You two hungry?"

"Ya sure you betcha," Paige quipped. "Watching all that sport makes me hungry. I'll help you slice the cheese." She walked off with a bouncy step to the kitchen, sparing a fond look at the glowing-Wyatt.

"Oooh, I'll get some chips out," Phoebe said, a ravenous look on her face as she followed her sisters into the kitchen.

"So that'll be five, then," Piper said. "I could do with one too after _that_ game."

Almost perplexed, Chris twisted and watched them go in, Piper busying herself with getting out the ingredients, and Wyatt (now no longer glowing, Leo must have known about the demon that had attacked) reliving the game blow-by-blow with Adam.

Peering in at the happy scene, he forced away the frown threatening to settle on his forehead. "I already ate," he muttered, even though he hadn't, he had to skip time for dinner to get to the school in time to sing. "Thanks for offering, though."

Okay, it was true, he was allergic to tomatoes, which Piper insisted on putting in her cheeseburgers, or else it wouldn't be a Halliwell cheeseburger, but she could have taken it out just this once. Or offered to make him something different.

She never did.

He remembered the first time she made the cheeseburgers. It was a couple of years after Adam had been born (and _that_ had been quite awful in itself, that first year, with the strain of not knowing that had dragged out until the diagnosis) and Wyatt had clamoured to go to some sort of Burger World, and Uncle Perry had suggested Piper make the burgers. Piper had done so, while Perry cooked a pan of sausages from himself and for Chris.

Chris had been bewildered. He'd never had tomatoes or oranges or cola up until this point, mostly because – he realised in hindsight – his Uncle Perry always stopped him. He didn't understand how Uncle Perry could tell him he was allergic, when by everyone's admission he'd never tried them.

So he'd taken a bite of Wyatt's when they were done, and got into trouble for taking his brother's food. Wyatt had kicked up a fuss too, an almighty tantrum, and Chris had to sullenly take his sausages upstairs.

Uncle Perry came upstairs as usual to comfort him, and explained how _he_ was allergic to all kinds of stuff, and they knew Chris had those allergies too from when he was a baby. Chris hadn't believed that at all – he knew for a fact he'd never had any kind of food sickness or rash, because when he got chicken pox when he was five, Piper freaked out worse than he'd ever seen her freaked out about him.

Still, she could cook him a sausage, or something, like Uncle Perry would have done. But Uncle Perry, Uncle Dan, Grandpa Victor, Uncle Cole and his cousin Sam were away on some fishing trip, and wouldn't be back until Sunday.

Despondent, and sore from the fall, he turned and opened the secondary door down to the basement by the main stairs and padded down to his room.

Very much alone, he lay on his bed and eventually drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

And woke up with a soft cry, pain blurring his vision impossibly. He raised one arm, only for it to be grabbed viciously, recognisable hands twisting a Chinese burn into his pale skin. He forced himself to be quiet, even as Wyatt swung a kick into his stomach, then a final one to his groin.

Tears welling up despite his self-resolve, Chris looked up in pain at his tormentor. Wyatt's expression was almost unreadable in the dark, with his long blond hair obscuring his gaze.

"That's for missing my game," Wyatt said, his voice low and dangerous. "I won't let you do it again."

Angry, Chris launched his head up. "You can't make me!" He hissed, and regretted it as Wyatt's foot caught him in the face this time. His hands clamped over his jaw, and he felt gingerly with his tongue, relieved that nothing was broken. "You can't- you can't-"

And he woke up properly this time, holding a cheek that didn't hurt, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop the scream. Wyatt hadn't been in to hurt him. The only bruises he had were from his own clumsiness and the demon attack. Bleary from the nightmare, he blinked across at the clock.

2:01 am.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to get to sleep after a nightmare like that one, he swung his sore body upright, his temples pulsing. He was going to get a headache, he knew it, but after losing several nights just staring at the ceiling after nightmares, he knew he couldn't get to sleep again.

Sighing, he got to his feet and then winced with the pain. Confused at how a single hit could hurt so bad, he reached out one fumbling hand to his dresser, his fingers tracing the edge of the lamp. He let his fingers curve up around the base, until he felt the switch. He pressed it, and light flooded the room.

He twisted his head to see over his shoulder, and couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. His back was throbbing. He wondered if it was just an awkward bruise coming out.

Deciding to ignore it, he decided to head upstairs and get something to drink, some milk if there was any left. That normally helped him get to sleep. Pushing open the door, he relished the feel of the new, thick carpet under his feet as he padded gently up the steps, not wanting to wake Wyatt.

There were no lights on, so he walked in the cover of moonlight through the hall and into the abandoned kitchen. Automatically he pulled a glass out of the cupboard, and set it on the counter as he padded over to the fridge. He pulled the door open, and light flooded the kitchen from the tiny bulb. Peering in, he pulled out the carton of milk, and after a second's thought, also pulled out several of the carrot sticks that Piper cut for them every morning, knowing that "hungry boys will snack."

Pouring himself a drink of the half-and-half milk, he returned the carton to the fridge,and sat down at the counter. Gulping a mouthful of it to soothe his restless stomach, he instantly choked it out when a hand touched his back gently.

"Whoa, boy!" The same hand rubbed his back, and Chris felt his face heat up again. He smiled awkwardly, pain tensing his face, as Bianca Morris slid into the chair next to him, a cheeky grin on her face.

"Where did you shimmer in from?" Chris asked, wiping the counter with a tea-towel and trying to suavely pretend he didn't spit milk out at the touch of her.

"This club Jenny Gordon dragged me to." Bianca pulled a face. "She's way too old for that kind of dancing, let me tell you."

Chris grinned. He always felt better when she was around, and she was the worst gossiper and general bitch about other people that normally he'd be horrified and refuse to talk to the person, but from Bianca he didn't mind. She had a way of saying things that amused him greatly.

"I heard your song, though," she added.

He stared at her. "I thought you were at Wyatt's game," Chris said, his voice faltering.

"Yeah," Bianca said. "But I shimmered out at the end to see if you'd sung yet. You're really good."

Chris felt his ears go red. "I, uh, thanks."

"You should tell them," Bianca added, her voice soft and persuasive, with that note of laughter in her voice that he lo- uh- liked.

"No, I shouldn't," Chris said. "I'd just get nervous if they were in the audience," he hurried to add, lying quickly, "and I wouldn't want to split their loyalties. Wyatt wants them there, he can have them."

"Hmm," was all Bianca said in return. She leant against the counter, and flexed her arms. "Is your Uncle Perry back yet?"

Bianca was one of Uncle Perry's best students. Chris knew she spent a lot of time with him, she was really determined, and he liked that.

"You getting tired of training with Pedro?" Chris said instead.

"I'd rather have your Uncle Cole," Bianca said, "and that's saying something."

It _was_ saying something, so Chris laughed. Last time Bianca trained with Uncle Cole, he accidentally snapped her arm in two places. _Sometimes it's good living in a house of part Whitelighters_.

"How's your dad?" Bianca asked.

Chris shrugged. "Leo? Haven't talked to him. Last time I heard, Wyatt said he was still in the tribunal process. Piper's pretty upset."

"You could call them mom and dad, freak," Bianca said.

"I already do call Leo a freak," Chris returned.

Bianca pulled a face at him and stole a carrot stick. "Oh, by the way, I talked to Chacha in casting at the club."

Chris instantly straightened a little more on the stool, trying not to seem too interested. "Oh?" he said casually. "Did she, uh, say anything about-"

"You didn't get the lead, peanut," Bianca said sadly, leaning a companionable arm around his back. She often did that, and Chris knew she knew it as a friendly gesture – there was over six years between them, a lifetime! – but it still made him feel a little dizzy, despite his sadness at the news.

"Oh," he said again.

"Cheer up," Bianca said, "you'd have looked pretty daft as Sandy in a frilly yellow dress. But at least you got the second best part."

She flashed an innocent smile at him, and he stared, feeling very light-headed.

"I'm going to be Danny Zuko? The lead of _Grease_?" He continued staring at her in the low light. "Really?"

She laughed. "Really, really."

He grinned, and in the excitement of that revelation he grabbed her from the chair and swung her around with a burst of strength he didn't know he had. She laughed as he swung her around, and when he put her back down, she stayed in his arms.

Chris swallowed, hard, when he realised how close she was.

Feeling braver than he had in a long time, he reached out one hand, trembling, to touch her cheek.

Bianca closed her eyes at his touch, then her eyes opened wide, and she leaned in almost imperceptibly closer.

Chris felt his heart speed up. She was warm beneath his touch. The age gap didn't seem to matter in that moment, all that mattered was that closeness…

Her lips ghosted apart slightly, in anticipation, and Chris couldn't pull himself away…

But he didn't have to.

Bianca wrenched suddenly, inexplicably out of his arms and pelted past him to the door, where a clearly amused man stood.

He was tall, well over six foot, with short brown hair not yet marred with grey, and eyes that changed like the sea. He had a smile on his face and a freckle on his nose that Chris knew so well, the identical freckle they both shared.

Well, some said it was a mole, but Uncle Perry said it was a freckle, so Chris did too.

Normally he'd be psyched to see his Uncle Perry after so long away, but after being so close to his first kiss, a small surge of loathing curled in his belly, which he tried to ignore.

"Hey, strangers," Uncle Perry greeted with a grin, and a wink at Chris even as Bianca smiled and bobbed on her feet in front of Perry. Chris couldn't resist the infectious grin and slowly smiled back.

"Hey, Perry, dad said to give you this," Bianca said, pulling a report out of her pants pocket that Chris hadn't noticed was there. "It's a police report on the kid you asked about."

Perry nodded, and took it from her. "Thank you very much, Bianca."

She grinned at him, and twisted a lock of hair in her right hand.

Chris watched the interaction with a jealousy that he barely dared to admit. He knew nothing would happen with Perry and Bianca – Perry was WAY too old for Bianca, and it was gross to think about – but sometimes, in the right light, it looked like they were flirting. And Chris didn't exactly like that.

"Guess I'd better be going," Bianca said, dimpling a smile at Perry. She turned on her heel, leant into Chris and noisily kissed him on the cheek before shimmering away.

Chris wanted to touch the spot on his cheek where her lips had touched, but suavely leant against the counter instead, as Perry rolled his eyes.

"Guess it's a waste asking how you are, Casanova," Perry said with a warm joking tone to his voice.

"How come you're back early?" Chris asked as Perry sat down and stole one of Chris' carrot sticks. Chris absent-mindedly shredded one stick as he asked the question, a bad habit Piper always tried to teach him out of.

"Missed my favourite nephew," Perry said, sotto voce. They shared a secret smile. Chris loved that Perry said that. Even if Perry said it to all of them, in his lovely warm voice and secret winks, Chris liked to believe he was the only one Perry said it to.

He ruffled Chris' hair. "I'm beat, gonna head up to bed. Don't stay up too late, will ya?"

"Nope," Chris said, smiling at Perry as he stole another carrot stick and turned to leave, twisting back to smile at Chris before disappearing upstairs.

Chris watched him go, revelling in the warmth of both of the exchanges, more company than he'd had all week. He turned back to the counter, and stared at the counter.

The carrot stick he'd shredded lay in front of him, and the first stick Perry had stolen was by where he'd sat, and was shredded in exactly the same way, in nine equal pieces. Chris was auspicious about the number nine, and had found out it was his birth number, so always broke things into nine pieces before eating them. Maybe it was a little neurotic, a little obsessive-compulsive, but it wasn't dangerous.

Chris had never told anyone about the reason behind his habit, and he'd never seen anyone else do it. He knew from the psychology classes he took to make Aunt Phoebe proud of him that people often mimicked others when sat or stood near them… but this habit was way too eerily close.

Perry's carrot was shred into the same nine equal pieces, laid out in the same circle.

Maybe Chris had actually got the habit from Perry, but he severely doubted it. He'd have remembered, surely?

The only other option was one that Chris kept secret from everyone, even Bianca, who knew about his singing, dancing, performing and other secret hobby. It was a theory he'd held for years, one he secretly stored away random pieces of information away to try and prove it.

It was a theory that Chris was convinced was right.

He and Perry were too similar. Way too similar. They looked the same. Had the same freckle. The same allergies. The same musical talent. The same physique. The same, if Perry really did flirt with Bianca like he suspected, taste in girls.

Everyone noticed the similarities, but it wasn't talked about. It was because he was so similar to Perry that everyone assumed they'd turn out the same. It was because of Perry that they didn't quite see him yet.

But Chris didn't mind. Because he wasn't all too fond of Leo, even though Leo tried his very best, Leo always seemed _split_ whenever he was around, like he couldn't quite properly share his affections between all of them.

Chris wasn't too worried about this, either. Because his theory was that Leo wasn't his father.

The reason he was so similar to his Uncle Perry was because Perry wasn't his Uncle. He was Chris' real father.

He knew it.

Now all he needed was the proof.

* * *

**To be continued**

* * *


	2. Chapter the Second

**

* * *

**

Unwell

* * *

Sequel to "Neurotic". Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do?

Disclaimer: If Charmed belonged to me, Chris would have his own spin-off. Does he? NO. So does Charmed belong to me? … NO.

* * *

**Chapter the Second**

**"Bleeding"**

* * *

For life is but a dream whose shapes return,

Some frequently, some seldom, some by night

And some by day.

James Thomson, "The City of Dreadful Night"

* * *

Telling Kit, Chris thought, was possibly not the greatest idea he'd ever had.

Kit was a couple of years younger than him, but had been moved to the same grade. Both rejects and both named Christopher, the two had bonded over their shared hate of biology and generally dorkiness of kids in school.

Even though Kit was possibly Chris' best friend in the whole world, he still hadn't told him of his theory about Perry. Or about hiding his love of drama and singing from his family. Or the other thing. Or magic.

Until now.

Well, he'd told Kit everything _but_ about the magic. He wasn't _stupid_.

And Kit had taken it all with the expression of one who has just been firmly slapped with a dead fish.

_I really have to try that someday._ Blinking, Chris sat on his hands and waited for Kit to say something. Anything.

To be fair on Kit, Chris had sort of blurted it all out when they were supposed to be in study hall (but, hey, who did study hall any more since it was made optional?) and they were working on their calculus homework, and it was sort of out of the blue, but Chris had been holding it in for so long, and with that almost-kiss with Bianca Morris last night, he'd just snapped.

And dumped it all on his best friend.

_Well, if Kit can't take it, then he's not my best friend. Best friends are supposed to deal with this sort of mental breakdown, aren't they?_

Kit muttered something in Spanish, rolled his eyes, and then shook his head.

Chris pulled a face. "Did you say something bad?"

"Did I say something-" Kit exhaled. "How long have you been sitting on this? I'm your best friend, moron, you're supposed to share this sort of stuff in little soap-opera like chunks, not in one five minutes compressed European artsy-fartsy tragedy."

"I saw it more as an off-Hollywood mystery," Chris said, trying to be helpful.

Kit narrowed his dark black eyes. Chris held his hands up in apology.

"I'm sorry," Chris said quickly, "I've freaked you out enough for today. I guess I'll go to the library-"

Chris pulled himself up to leave, and found that he couldn't. He turned to see Kit had grabbed his wrist rather tightly and wouldn't let him go.

"Sit down," Kit said, his melodic voice amused and domineering.

Chris sat.

"Okay, let's get this straight. One – your family seems to pre-empt everything you do. Two – so in retaliation, you listen to everything they think you're going to be, pretend to do it, but secretly do other things. Like dance hall. Three – they don't know what you do at football games, which I, for one, understand why you don't tell, because they'd surely drag you out of that situation. All those girls!" Kit held up his hand for a high-five. Chris hit it and they both sniggered quietly. "Four – you waited three years to tell me? That stings, man."

Chris stopped sniggering, and fell quiet. "I'm sorry." He looked down. "It's just at first, you know, I almost thought I was imagining it. And then one day, I accidentally set fire to the rug, covered up that it was me, and they knew it was me anyway. The same day, they blocked me from seeing Knightmare VR. And I _never_ confessed to liking that show. Ever."

It was true. Chris normally went around Kit's house to see it.

"That is messed up," Kit said. "And it keeps happening?"

"Yeah," Chris said. "They even knew I'd be best friends with you. Before I'd even met you. Mom totally asked me when I joined high school 'how Kit was'. I thought she meant our old cat."

"Something's definitely going on," Kit said. "Good thing you've got me to help you sneak this out of your family."

Chris brightened at the sound of that. "You're going to help me?"

"What else are best friends for, eh?" Kit said. Chris grinned. "Just promise me something."

"What?" Chris straightened up and leaned closer.

"Never lie to me about something this big again," Kit said.

Chris pulled a face. "Oh."

Kit immediately pulled back, pressing his lips together, his dark skin tinged darker with annoyance. "What now?"

"I almost kissed Bianca Morris last night," Chris said, and then characteristically started babbling, "I mean, it was more like this morning because it was two in the morning, but it was kinda last night I guess, and we didn't actually kiss. But we almost did, until my Uncle Perry came back, which is when I discovered the carrot stick thing, and-"

"BREATHE!"

Chris stopped babbling at Kit's yell, and grinned sheepishly. "Hey, I'm the King of Babble." He cocked his head, thoughtfully. "Another thing my family don't know…"

That made Kit pause. "How can they _not_ know you're the master of babble?" His face dropped, and he looked suddenly, deeply serious. "They really don't know you at all, do they?"

"No," Chris said, "they don't."

Kit inhaled and exhaled slowly, as if it was only in that moment he'd fully comprehended what Chris had finally revealed to him. "Right," Kit said, "and you're sure they won't listen to you?"

"Positive," Chris said. "I've tried."

"Right then." Kit extended his arms and flexed his hands until his knuckles cracked. "You need three consecutive plans in motion, and I appoint myself head planner!" He beamed. "On the condition you tell me everything."

Chris smiled happily, until he realised what Kit had set. "_Three _plans?"

"Yeah," Kit said. "Plan one- find out whether Perry really is your father. Since talking to your family doesn't really work, and you seem too wary to try the direct route – a.k.a. asking him directly –" ("they'd lie," Chris interjected) "then we'll have to find subtle methods to investigate."

"Right," Chris said, nodding.

"Plan two – you're going to come out, with a vengeance."

Chris blinked. "Uh, Kit, hate to tell you this but I'm not gay."

Kit sent him a withering look. "Uh, _darling,_ I know. Neither of us are special enough for that."

Chris grinned. Kit's older sister was gay, and Kit was fiercely protective of Carmen.

"You're going to come out to your family with what you do. Who you really are. Crowbar your real self into your family. You shouldn't _have _to be flamboyant about it, but it's the only way they're going to sit up and take notice." Kit folded his arms at Chris' wince. "And don't be scared about their reactions. The way they treat you right now, _despite_ your dad being in prison and your little brother's problems, isn't right. It isn't. Ambivalence is worse than negativity."

"And three?"

"Getting to second base with sweet Miss. Bianca Morris, of course."

Chris blushed instantly.

Kit grinned, smugly. "Thought you might react like that."

"Thanks, man."

"Anytime," Kit returned. "Speaking of time, don't you have your music lesson now?"

Chris looked down at his watch. "Aw, crud."

Kit grinned. "I'll see you in rehearsals." Kit was in the drama group too, more of a behind the scenes person than Chris. "Rumour has it, the roles for Grease will be announced today."

"Urgh," Chris lied, pretending he didn't know the outcome of the auditions they'd had last week. "I'll see you then."

They grinned and bumped fists, and Chris hurried off to his piano lesson.

* * *

It was cold.

That was all she knew as she padded forwards gently; the floor soft beneath her bare feet. A whispered sound made her jump slightly and she fell to the ground in a crouch, tentatively looking around.

Someone was there…

Or rather some_thing_.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. A dark black shape reached out of the darkness, rushing towards her. Instinctively she raised her hands and stumbled backwards before her training kicked in and she launched a savage kick at the more vulnerable sections of the black shape. It howled in agony but moved in again for the kill. Emboldened by her previous contact with the shape she let her body curl and she leapt out of the way with a dazzling twist that confused the shape. It circled once and bared teeth, ready for the attack. Taking a deep breath the girl executed a neat somersault before bringing her hand down sharply on the thing's back. It let out a scream of pain but she held no remorse in her eyes, no mercy as she moved for the killing blow. Leaping into the air with all her strength her feet moved down in unison on it. Emitting a loud shriek the shape dissolved into oblivion and she landed gently back on the mat, her smile triumphant.

The lights clicked back on

Bianca continued to smile, dusting her slightly sweaty palms off on the back of her pants and looking towards Perry for approval.

He didn't look impressed.

Her face fell. She'd done everything _right_, hadn't she?

She looked at his face again. His good-looking angular features were marred by a discontented frown.

"What did I do wrong?" Bianca blurted.

Perry let out a small, unsatisfied sigh and strode forwards, bodily grabbing her wrists and yanking her closer.

"Everything," he ground out, annoyed.

She didn't flinch, but looked at him predatorily. "I did everything fine," she said, not moving an inch, glaring just as furiously back at him. "So this isn't about me messing up." She noticed his pupils dilate, his grip tighten, and she continued. "So why not admit this isn't about me, but about you being jealous I almost kissed your nephew last night."

"I'm not bothered about that," Perry hissed, "except for the fact that if you break Chris' heart, I will rip you in two."

She didn't move, inwardly shaken, but she didn't believe him, so she stayed still. Despite the way Perry talked in all of their sessions, the way he was harsh about her, and tough, and strict of her every movement when she knew for a _fact _he was absolutely lovely to all of his other trainees, she knew there was something there.

She could feel it, almost tangible in the air between them as they fought, as they danced around it, too stiff, too formal, and too scared to break the stalemate.

Last night was an eye-opener for Bianca. She felt sorry for Chris, sure. He was cute, hell definitely. Little young, but honest-to-god to die for. But she wasn't in love with him. And she wasn't very attracted to him.

Not like with Perry.

Perry continued to ignore her, and spurn her, in most of his actions and words. But sometimes, for small moments, for seconds, his voice spoke another story. And his body usually contrasted to his words, proclaiming his words a lie.

He was just as attracted to her as she was to him, and she knew it. He might even be in love with her. But for goddess knew _what_ reason, he wouldn't admit it.

Now Bianca knew for sure how she felt about Chris, that it just wasn't the same, it wasn't enough, she was going to force the truth out of Perry. Somehow. Somewhere. Sometime.

"I'd rip myself in two before hurting him," Bianca said, hotly.

The truth of it shimmered between them like a mirage, and Perry opened his mouth as if to say something. Just like always, Bianca could see how Perry really felt on his face, for just one fleeting second, until his face closed, like a door closing behind his eyes. There was a small clicking sound. A second later, he yanked her around, his hands tight on her elbows, pushing them into her side.

"Keep your elbows to your sides when you somersault. You leave them wide – too open to fault. Keep your arms in tighter for a tighter turn. You lift your elbow up too high when you hit. Lean your body more into attacks." He physically pushed her forwards, tilting her onto her toes, and he leaned into her. She felt gravity tug her forwards, and felt like she had more power behind her.

"Yes, I see," she said, blowing hair away from her face. She tilted her face so it was by his. "I'll try better next time."

Perry seemed unnerved by her closeness this time, and he pushed her away. "See that you do," he said curtly. "I'll see you tomorrow, same time."

She tossed her hair and smiled winningly at him. "Looking forward to it," she purred, grinned widely, and shimmered out.

* * *

Perry leant against the counter, and pushed his face into his hand. His hair felt sweaty, and he desperately needed a shower, but Paige was in there, and he knew from a lifetime's experience that when Paige took a shower in the afternoon, on her days off, that it was a good two-hour thing.

If he didn't know any better, Bianca Morris was getting a little too obvious in her crush on him. This was getting ridiculous. When he'd stupidly interrupted Bianca and Chris last night, he'd assumed that she'd gotten over his crush on him, but it was obviously a mistake.

And very much wishful thinking on his part.

_Because we're basically the same person_, he reflected miserably, _so really, she's only got the crush on _one_ person_.

That thought made him feel worse. He'd _had_ his chance with _his_ Bianca, now Chris deserved the same chance. Chris deserved the whole world. Perry was already living his miracle.

Thinking about Chris, how he had the chance for the life Perry had never had, a safe loving life with his family, however unconventional the family had become, usually made Perry's day a lot easier.

Sure, Bianca was probably going to flirt with him, she was a young woman, and had a huge amount of one-to-one training with him. It was only natural. And he had enough willpower and strength to push her away, and only train her, because it wasn't fair to deny her the training she needed, just because of the tiny little thing that she really_ was_ the love of her life, and try as he might he just couldn't stop being in love with her.

Yup. Just a tiny, idgy, widgy, eensy weensy, minutely pathetically tiny little soul-destroying thing.

Chris was who kept him going.

Chris and Bianca were going to fall in love, if they hadn't already, and have a perfect life together. The life Perry could and would never have.

"You're awfully tough with her, peanut."

Perry moved his hands from his face and smiled sadly at his mom's face.

Piper had held up just at they always knew she would, and from her face, you wouldn't suspect she'd aged all that much at all. She looked even younger than 'Pippa' had, but it was probably because she'd kept her hair longer, and had a few less wrinkles.

"You were the one who peeked in," Perry said.

Piper nodded, and started rooting about in the fridge, pulling out things. "Yeah. And you're much tougher with her than anyone. Even Jenny Gordon."

"Bianca needs to be pushed," Perry said, in a light tone.

Piper glared at him.

Perry visibly sank. "All right, all right." He held up his hands. "Ooh, are you making Chicken Teriyaki?"

"Yes," Piper said, "Adam requested it, and as he's done so well on his English today, I thought making him his favourite would be a nice mini-celebration, and stop changing the subject by distracting me with food!"

Perry grinned cheekily. "But it works so well!"

Piper glared.

"All right," Perry acquiesced. "I have to be tough on her," he said, his voice low as he tried to explain it the best he could. "Otherwise I forget she's not…" He trailed off, pressing his mouth into a long line of sadness, looking away.

Piper moved gracefully away from the fridge, and touched his arm gently. "I almost forgot," she said, her voice thick with apology. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Perry said, looking up at her and grinning. "I have a superb life. Wyatt's good as gold, fantastic. Chris is different to me, having a wonderful time. Adam _exists_, okay he's not Paul, but I wouldn't trade him for the world, he's still in a weird twisted way my brother. And Sam-"

"-is Sam," Piper finished with him, and they shared a grin, the family motto about Sam ringing between them as a favourite family joke.

"Sam is definitely Sam," Perry repeated, shaking his head. "He was a holy terror on the field trip."

"That why you came home early?" Piper said, cocking her head to one side.

"Nah," Perry said. He grimaced. "Cole was trying to cook the fish we caught."

Piper grimaced. "How can Phoebe and Cole have really been fated to be together? They're the worst cooks in the universe!"

"It's to compensate for you being such a brilliant cook," Perry said.

"Aww," Piper said, "I love getting compliments. But it still doesn't mean you're getting a bigger portion."

"Aw, crap," Perry smiled, turned to leave, and then turned back. "Oh, don't forget to put a portion aside for Chris. He's got his drama group tonight."

"Will do," Piper said, starting to chop some onions with efficient speed. "Were you this obsessed with music when you were his age?"

"Sure," Perry said.

"Fine, I won't worry," Piper said. "Thanks."

"No probs. I'll see you in half an hour," Perry said.

Piper paused from her chopping and looked at him quizzically.

"I've got to kick Paige out of the shower," Perry explained.

"Oh," Piper said, grinning. "Got ya."

* * *

Chris wished he'd not given Kit the container of Pocky he'd brought into school for his best friend. Kit was absolutely addicted to Pocky, and Chris had bought him a box of them from Chinatown when his Aunt Phoebe was bulk buying in some potion ingredients, knowing how much his friend liked them. In return, Kit sometimes brought Chris in his favourite soda – a popular brand of colourless cola-flavoured soda that Chris wasn't allergic to like regular cola.

He knew casting was happening today, and wanted to give Kit something just in case he was stuck on lighting again, but it wasn't even necessary – Kit was given the job of recording and editing the show to put it on UMD disc to sell to raise funds. UMD was a little bit retro, but would stop the show being passed cell phone to cell phone for a couple of weeks.

Considering Kit wanted to be the next Pedro Almadovar, or Vincenzo Natali, being given the job of recorder and editor was Kit's idea of the dream job, and Chris needn't have brought the sugar to console Kit with. Now Kit could hardly stay in his seat with the excitement and sugar high.

For once, Chris didn't care that Kit was fidgety. He'd unloaded all his burdens onto his friend for the first time, and it felt great.

Chacha, dressed in a flamboyant Chinese mini-dress, her black hair pulled up high into two lopsided buns, had already announced the main cast, except for the two leads.

She cleared her throat and clapped her hands, and Chris turned from Kit's excited bopping in his seat to where Chacha stood, hands on her hips, bubblegum-pink smile turned on full force.

"Now, for what you've all been waiting for… The lead role of Danny Zuko… goes to the voice that wowed the mayor last night with his rendition of _Music of the Night_… Christopher Halliwell!"

Chris grinned at a beaming and surprised Kit, and then jumped onto his own seat and took an extravagant bow as the rest of the group clapped and hollered his name. He gave a wink to the chorus girls, and then jumped back down; exuberantly happy despite the fact he already knew he'd be playing Zuko.

This was a side of his personality that he never felt comfortable showing at home. Despite all his winging that they all assumed what he was like, he never had shown this side of him at home, resentful that they assumed it didn't exist.

What his family didn't know was this was due to change.

_C'est pres de chez vous, _Chris thought triumphantly, the title of one of his favourite movies. _Coming soon to a home near you_ was the English idiomatic equivalent, although some moron or other had called it _Man Bites Dog_. Chris shivered inwardly – aware that he'd spent too much time around Kit. Kit was always showing him this European classic or some other, but most of the time it was pretty cool. Chris knew he'd miss out on such films that were made a couple of decades before his time, like _City of God_ or _The Return_ or _Casshern_.

He could have done with missing _Punishment Park_. But that was a tiny drop of water in the vase of life, or however that French proverb went, and Chris was glad of Kit's obsession with old films, as it was much more extensive than even his Aunt Paige's DVD collection, which wasn't insubstantial itself. He liked knowing things his family didn't.

That was another thing that was going to be _pres de chez Halliwell_, in the very near future.

"And the role of Sandy is… drum roll please…"

Chris tuned back in to Chacha's admittedly annoying voice as she introduced who would be playing Sandy. He'd forgotten completely that he didn't know who'd be cast as his romantic lead.

He'd forgotten there _was_ going to be a romantic lead. In the whole exciting hullabaloo of being cast as the lead, he'd completely forgotten what _Grease_ was about. An exciting musical panache of the fifties, yes. A love story, though, that was the core of it.

He'd forgotten he was probably going to have to snog one of the air-headed bimbettes in school on stage, in front of hundreds of his peers.

"I'm such a moose," Chris hissed to Kit. "I'm going to have to snog…"

"…Alice Peron!" Chacha concluded triumphantly.

Kit's eyes widened as the auditorium erupted into cheers.

He looked at Chris' surprised, open face, and promptly burst out laughing.

* * *

Chris had made some vague goodbye to Kit, and hurried away quickly after Chacha had given them all their scripts, on the pain of supreme torture if they lost, burnt, got coffee on them, spilt chilli sauce on them, papered the principal's car with them or otherwise didn't have the script about their person at all time.

Alice Peron! Alice bloody Peron!

Chris seethed as he stomped his way down to the gym block.

Alice Peron was a bitch.

No, that wasn't harsh enough.

She was a devil.

Nope, not even that was harsh enough.

She was Satan Himself.

And…

…had been Wyatt's girlfriend for the last two years.

Chris thumped himself in the forehead, and seriously rethought the plans he and Kit had come up with.

Wyatt couldn't find out about this. He hadn't enough known Alice had auditioned for a dramatic role – normally, she was a shy wallflower in the group, the scenery artist, who had quietly kept Chris' secret that he regularly performed on stage with abandon, knowing Wyatt would tease Chris heartlessly about it. Wyatt was that kind of person, and both Chris and Alice knew it.

Now Alice was going to want to crow about her part. She was going to want to celebrate landing the role of Sandy. It was a great part. She _should_ celebrate.

But how was Chris going to explain to his older, twice-blessed, remarkable brother that he was going to have to kiss her several times?

Chris thumped himself soundly in the forehead again and slid into the gym, briefly acknowledging Mr. Avon as he made his way to the changing room.

He mechanically changed into his uniform, and quickly ran through some limbering exercises, getting his muscles ready for the hour ahead.

He had the changing room mostly to himself, usually because the other boys wouldn't turn up until ten minutes, and the soccer team had the opposite male changing room to themselves. The girls, he could hear them clattering around noisily next door, had already arrived.

From the sound of it, he had a full squad tonight.

Stretching his shoulders quickly, he nodded at Tim and Alan as they came into the room, and squeezed out of the room into the corridor. He liked to be in the hall before the others; it gave him more of a sense of leadership.

He'd gained his position at the end of last year, the youngest boy ever to hold it. Torrance, his predecessor, had been in the drama group with him and seen him help choreograph the dances for _Footloose_ and been impressed, and he knew he hadn't let her down.

He _so_ hadn't let them down that they were going to be heading for the Regional's qualifier next month.

Of all the things his family didn't know, this one surprised him the most that no one knew. Not even Wyatt, and he hung around with some of the girls. Chris didn't talk much to the girls in the squad, though. He was there to lead, and they respected him for it. He did it well, and that was enough, and he was going to lead them to win the regional championship, and that was more than enough. It Chris wasn't going to be chatty with them, they didn't mind.

Chris headed into the hall reserved for their practise, and walked confidently over to the CD player Mr. Avon had set up for him. He pushed in the CD and pressed play. A smooth, rhythmical track started to play, and he clapped his hands as the girls jogged in, followed by the rest of the guys, who'd obviously – as usual – appeared just in time.

He ordered them to run laps around the gym, and ran backwards in front of them, his sea-like eyes travelling over them, pleased at the amount of progress they'd made over the year, and as they moved into formation after the run and started to practise their moves, Chris concentrated on the squad and helping them, trying not to image the ruckus at home when he _did _explosively 'come out' to his family.

And he tried _desperately _hard not to think how many cheerleading jokes he'd have to fend off.

* * *

He shouted at Divine and Anya a lot during practise, which helped his mood a little as he ran through the rest of the practise. The routine was coming together superbly, and Chris had used his martial arts training from Perry and Phoebe to add a bit of spice to the routine, and Pita – his second in command – had taught him some traditional Romanian dances, and he'd incorporated some of those moves into the routine as well.

In a couple of weeks, they'd be superb.

He ran through the default routines, the one they practised in public at the football games to put off any other squads that tried to steal their moves, and the squad moved together perfectly. Chris looked forward to the day some squad tried to steal their fake moves – they were all stolen straight from the movie _Bring It On_, so any squad trying to use them would look like fools in the regional competition.

He congratulated them at the end on a job well done, and was jogging fast back to the changing room, mentally calculating how long he had to get home before someone got suspicious of what he was _doing_ staying so long after the end of school (although, to be fair, he did it every week) when Pita called out his name.

Chris turned and looked back at the pretty Romanian girl. "What?" he asked, clueless.

The entire squad was staring at him, their faces pale, wrought with deep and genuine concern that touched Chris to the quick.

"Chris," Pita said, her voice soft as she walked up to him. She put her hand tentatively on his shoulder. She tugged, as if to turn him around, and Chris let her. She inhaled sharply, and Chris could feel her hands on the bottom of his shirt. She tugged it up, and Chris felt a sudden wrench of pain as she pulled it away.

He mutely helped her pull it off, and he stared from his blood-drenched shirt to her.

Her eyes were round, and the expression was echoed on his squad's faces.

"You're bleeding," she said, her voice low. "What happened?"

"Looks like something clawed you, man," Alan broke in. Chris looked up at the six foot blond, unaware that he'd moved closer.

"I- I don't," Chris said vaguely. "Uh-"

"Get Mr. Avon," Pita said. Chris stared at her in bewilderment; vaguely aware than people were crowding around him, gawping, like he was a circus act, and he flinched as someone touched his back.

"Mr. Halliwell," Mr. Avon said, suddenly appearing at Chris' shoulder. Mr. Avon looked heavily around at the squad. "I'm going to get him to the nurse. Pita, could you run down to the field and inform Mr. Morgan that he's to lock up tonight? Explain the emergency. The rest of you, please don't panic, just get dressed, go home, I'm sure Chris will explain things to you later."

"I'll text Pita with the news," Chris said. He looked at his concerned second-in-command, and nodded at her. "Pass it on?"

"You bet," she said quickly.

"Go!" Mr. Avon commanded, and the squad scattered instantly.

Feeling dizzy, Chris leant against Mr. Avon.

"Think you can make it up to the school?" Mr. Avon asked.

Chris nodded.

They walked up the path to the school quickly, and Chris was glad most people had gone home and that the only team practising was the football team, and they'd be out for another couple hours. The pain washed over him, and Chris couldn't believe he'd lasted this long without noticing. He supposed the euphoria of drama club and of telling Kit the truth had acted as a distraction.

Mr. Avon was moving determinedly, and tugged Chris down a side corridor, and it wasn't until they were passing the home economics rooms that Chris realised they weren't heading for the medical bay.

"What-" Chris managed.

"I'm getting you help, Mr. Halliwell," Mr. Avon enigmatically responded.

Chris immediately tensed; surreptitiously reaching inwardly for his magic, ready to unleash it on Mr. Avon if he turned out to be a demon.

"There's no need for that," Mr. Avon immediately snapped. "Leave your magic alone – I'm a friend."

Chris let it go in surprise, and kept on walking with Mr. Avon as they twisted around another corridor. They were heading up to the music department.

"Who are you?" Chris demanded.

"I'm a friend," Mr. Avon repeated, barrelling them both through the double doors into the music department. He elbowed open a door, and Chris blinked up to see Mrs. Williamson sat at a table, which was covered in maps, and she held a pendulum above them, her face creased in consternation.

She turned, and her mouth opened into an 'o'.

"What happened?" Mrs. Williamson kicked the chair back, and it went flying, but she ignored it as she ran over to Chris. She touched his cheek. "He's burning up."

Mr. Avon manhandled Chris onto the table, sweeping aside the maps with disregard. "Of course he is."

Chris couldn't react as Mr. Avon flipped him over. Chris struggled, but Mr. Avon held him down.

"He needs healing," Mr. Avon ground out.

Chris opened his mouth as a hand touched the wound, and then he felt a familiar surge of warmth, and a familiar tingling as his skin knotted together. After a few seconds, the sensation flooded away, and with renewed strength he pushed himself around and up, sitting on the edge of the table, looking between his two rescuers.

He worked his mouth uselessly for a few seconds, and then stared at Mrs. Williamson. "You're…"

"…a Whitelighter?" Mrs. Williamson sounded amused. "Yes." She smiled. "_Your_ Whitelighter, to be exact." She elbowed Mr. Avon. "He's a Whitelighter too." She glared at Mr. Avon suddenly. "Don't know why _he_ didn't heal you."

"Am I allowed to?" Mr. Avon blinked. "He's your charge."

"Yes, you are-" Mrs. Williamson stopped, and sighed. "Sorry, Chris, this must all be very confusing."

"You think?" Chris responded, deadpan. He looked at her. "You're my Whitelighter?"

"Yes," Mrs. Williamson said, still sounding amused. "I've been surreptitiously helping you for a long time now."

"You mean _lying_ to me for a long time now," Chris said, aware he was sulking, but not being able to stop it.

Mrs. Williamson looked uncomfortable. "For your own good…"

"Yeah, I bet that's what my family would say. They're good at lying to me too," Chris said.

Mrs. Williamson looked even more uncomfortable. "Your family has a good reason to lie to you," she said. "And don't ask me to tell you what it is, because I can't. If you can believe it, it's for the sake of the universe that you don't know."

Chris stared at her, perplexed. "How do you know all this? And how can I trust that you're telling the truth _now_ just after you've admitted to lying to me!"

"You've got to tell him," Mr. Avon said, his voice low and serious. Chris had always liked Mr. Avon's voice, it was very soothing when he felt unsure about things, and he'd always said the most encouraging things to help Chris keep going with the squad when he was most unsure about his competency.

"Okay," Mrs. Williamson said, exhaling long and hard. She knelt down, taking Chris' hands, and for some reason he couldn't look away, and for some inexplicable reason he knew he trusted her, deeply and implicitly and with his own life. "Mr. Avon and I… are connected to you in a very special way…"

"How-" Chris began.

"I used to be very close to the Charmed Ones," Mr. Avon said, "even before they knew they were Charmed Ones. Before Paige."

"In Aunty Prue's time?" Chris said. "But they've never mentioned you. Mom even met you on parents' night, and you never-"

"Mr. Avon wasn't always my name," 'Mr. Avon' said. "But perhaps you have heard my name before. Andy Trudeau."

Chris stared at 'Mr. Avon' – Andy Trudeau – his eyes wide.

Andy smiled at him encouragingly, and knelt down beside Mrs. Williamson, taking her hand gently. She looked worried, gauging Chris' reaction nervously.

"You were the cop that died, saving Aunty Prue," Chris said, "you were close to her, and-"

That's when he clocked that Andy was holding 'Mrs. Williamson's' hand very gently, and realisation hit.

He stared at her.

She smiled back.

"Yes, Chris," she said.

Chris' mouth fell open. "Aunty Prue?"

* * *

**To be continued…**


	3. Chapter the Third

**Unwell

* * *

**

Sequel to "Neurotic". Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do?

Disclaimer: If Charmed belonged to me, Chris would have his own spin-off. Does he? NO. So does Charmed belong to me? … NO.

Author's Notes: Yeah, Unwell is going to have slower updates than Neurotic, just to warn you (if you hadn't guessed.) I'm in my final year of my degree, so my dissertation is taking up most of my time, let alone the feature film script I have to write for it.

* * *

Chapter the Third

"Cemetery"

* * *

The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

P.B. Shelley "Adonais"

* * *

"I don't get it."

Chris folded his arms, and leant back against the table.

Mrs. Williamson and Mr. Avon – Prue and Andy – moved around to face him, standing close to each other.

"I died before you were born," Prue said after exchanging a glance with Andy, in a low voice she probably thought was comforting. "I guess your mom told you the story…"

"My Uncle Perry did," Chris said, looking between them edgily.

Prue and Andy exchanged another weird glance, and Chris felt his stomach thrill. There _was_ something weird about his Uncle Perry. He _knew_ it. And that weird glance just confirmed it.

"And when I died, I was given the option of being a Whitelighter, but only later, when your mom could take it," Prue continued, and that's when Chris understood – she thought he didn't grasp the concept of how she became a Whitelighter.

"So you got me as your charge, blah, bliddy, blah, but mom's not ready so I can't tell her, blah, etc. etc. I get that," Chris said flatly. Prue looked almost surprised. "I don't get how come mom saw Mr. Avon – I mean, Andy - at parents' night and didn't recognise him." Chris flickered a glance at Mrs. Williamson. "I guess I understand now why you pulled a sickie that night, even though you'd been perfectly well all day."

Prue blanched a little. Andy stepped forwards a little. The two shared another glance. Chris didn't like those glances. They were the smug little glances of two who had been together so long they didn't always need to communicate with words, and it wasn't exactly the sort of thing that ever comforted him. Chris had never known anyone well enough. Not even his family.

"People don't see what they want to see," Andy said. "They have a preconceived idea about something, and they just don't see."

"Bull," Chris said.

Andy looked confused.

"She didn't go, did she?" Chris put his hands on his hips and tilted his head arrogantly.

"She did come into the hall-" Andy offered after another of those weird glances with Prue.

"This is ridiculous." The words were out of Chris' mouth before he could snap them back, but he didn't care. If today really was the beginning of the rest of his life, as Kit had melodramatically declared earlier, then perhaps he needed to be a bit edgier, a bit more confrontational. Being a wallflower had been too easy to continue. "I'm going home."

Chris moved to the door, knowing he was scowling, but not caring, blood rushing in his ears. His mom had lied to him, more than once, he knew, but hadn't been able to really prove it before. Now he had proof, an eyewitness that knew Piper hadn't been to his school night. Had she even been to any? It made sense if she hadn't – that would be part of the reason he'd kept his own secrets so long. One of his teachers would have been bound to snark about his lack of attention on schoolwork due to his music preoccupation. And his maths teachers had all been sarcastic about his cheerleading.

A hand stopped him, and he turned, fury on his face, to come eye to eye with his Aunt Prue – the woman who had taught him how to play piano, how to sing, how to perform, how to do everything that had kept him sane since starting high school. _I suppose that's what family's supposed to do,_ Chris quickly reasoned with himself, which quelled a small amount of his fury, and he stilled.

"I know you feel betrayed," Prue said, her voice low and quiet and earnest. "I've been watching out for you your whole life. And when I realised how they were treating you… They don't mean to ignore you."

Chris pulled his arm away, but didn't leave. He lifted his head, his eyes dry, although he felt like crying, and he hadn't felt like crying for a very long time. "You know why they ignore me, don't you?"

Prue didn't answer straight away. "Yes," she said, as she saw Chris tense to leave again.

"Why?" Chris stared at her, his back straight, his eyes blazing.

"I can't tell you."

"Why?" Chris demanded again. "Why do they think they know everything about me? Why don't they care about what I do? How come they haven't even bothered finding out anything about me? Why-just-oh-"

And there it was – a hot pressure behind his eyes that he hated, that made him feel wretched and small and useless, and he fought back the tears, and this time succeeded. He straightened that little bit more, feeling his back click in protest.

"I can't tell you," Prue said, miserable. "I can only do what I can."

"Which is?" Chris said, his voice inflected with a tangible anger.

"Love you."

Chris opened his mouth for an angry retort, but shut it again, a little blindsided. Then he smiled, wryly.

"Your family loves you too," Prue added, her voice soft but insistent. "We all do."

"They've got a really odd way of showing it," Chris said, his voice falling in disgust, and he sank down onto a chair near the door.

"Andy, can you go fetch Chris' things from the gym," Prue said, looking up at Mr. Avon-no-Andy Trudeau. The brown-haired man nodded and left, kindly ruffling Chris' hair as he left.

Prue pulled down a chair and sat next to Chris, not touching him, just sitting there, watching him.

"Aunty Prue?" The name sounded odd and stilted in Chris' uncertain voice, but it came with a twinge of _rightness_ too that Chris welcomed – it may be odd now, but he would get used to it. "Uncle Perry. He's not what he seems, is he?"

Chris couldn't quite see Prue's face, but he could feel her tense. "Your Uncle Perry loves you, very much," Prue said, eventually.

"That's not-"

"He's given up a lot for this family," Prue said, turning to him, taking Chris' hands and forcing him to look at her. "He has sacrificed more than you'll ever know."

"You're avoiding the question," Chris said, his voice lowering, a glint of anger in his voice. "Is he really my uncle?"

"That's a ridiculous question," Prue snapped.

"That's not an answer," Chris returned.

"Look, Chris-" Prue started.

"Aunty Prue, I need to know." He locked eyes with her, his gaze desperately searching her face, with curves he now recognised from the old photographs, a curve of her eyebrows, her own identifiable Halliwell freckle, the dark humour in her eyes. "Just one question. Please, please, be truthful. Promise."

Prue looked torn. "It depends on the question," she said, cagily.

"Is Perry my real father?" The question came out unsteadily, but fast, and Chris wasn't entirely sure that was the question he had meant to ask. It was the one he wanted answered, but he hadn't realised he had the courage to voice the query to anyone but Kit. It was a good feeling, that bubble of bravery, and he held onto it as he faced her down.

Prue almost laughed, which quickly riled him.

"Don't laugh at me!" Chris said hotly. "It's so obvious! The way we look so similar, we're allergic to all the same things, Leo can barely stand to look at me, and everyone thinks I'm going to turn out just like him. We have the same freckle. The same thing about the number nine, the same-"

Prue stopped him with a hand to his cheek. Chris stared at her angrily.

"Please," he said, instead. "I need the truth."

She sighed. "Chris, of all the things I can promise you in the world, there's one thing I can tell you for absolute certain. Perry is definitely not your biological father. However much doubt you have about this family, however much you've been lied to, you have to believe this one truth: it is absolutely genetically impossible for Perry to be your father."

The words rang true, but Chris was still angry. "You've lied to me for so long, how can I believe you?"

Prue looked at him then, so sadly, almost as if her heart was broken. "How badly you've been mistreated, that you're so mistrustful at so young an age…"

"I'm nearly eighteen," Chris snapped, so promptly and primly that they both burst out laughing, which broke the mournful moment.

Prue earnestly turned his face to hers again with both of her hands keeping him looking at her. "Chris, if you believe nothing else – although I promise Perry is not your father – then believe this: I can't believe how anyone could not see you. I can't believe how badly they've treated you, when you are so amazing. And I can't believe that you haven't smashed me across the room for betraying you, because that's the worst thing I've ever had to do."

Chris just looked at her. "Thank you," he said, eventually. "Thank you for looking out for me. And-" He faltered.

"What?"

He grinned suddenly. "Thank you for being my music teacher. Having that is what keeps me sane."

"I know," Prue said, with a grin. "I'm the one who does see _you_."

* * *

Chris walked home rather than Orbing, knowing he'd be a bit late, but not caring. He needed some time to think about what Prue had told him. Things had been a bit awkward after their heart-to-heart, and then Andy had come back with his stuff. Chris put his clean t-shirt on, promised not to tell anyone about who they really were, and left.

He got out his phone and idly texted Pita as he walked. WSNT BLUD-ADAM, PRCTCL JOKE-FAKE BLUD, SLO ACT ACID.GONA NUKE HIS COMIX.SPRED NEWS. C.H. Blaming it as a practical joke by his younger brother- well, that was a low blow, but believable. Chris wouldn't burn Adam's comic collection, though, whatever happened. Even if Adam was part of the family lie and Chris was really adopted, or something like that.

That thought made him scowl. If he was adopted, then that would explain Prue's adamant stance on Perry not being his real dad. And it would explain why he was ignored – he wasn't a real Halliwell. He _did_ have Halliwell magic, but what if that had been transferred from the real Halliwell baby, maybe the actual Chris died, and they adopted _him_, and swapped the magic into him before the real Chris died, and-

Chris rubbed his forehead, a huge headache developing.

It wasn't a good thought. And even though he'd seen his birth certificate – he and Wyatt both, and Chris had enough fuel to tease Wyatt for years because Wyatt mispronounced Piper as 'Pippa' – it didn't prove anything, because that could just be the real Chris' birth certificate.

The headache developed further.

Chris sighed, and his phone beeped. He lifted it up idly as he turned the corner to the house. U MISD 1ST REHEARSE!!-PITA TOLD OF BLUD. U OK? CUM 2 HALL EARLY 2MORO 4 CATCHUP W/ALICE. U MISD NOWT.CHACHA.

He sighed, and resisted the urge to hit his forehead. He'd vaguely recalled her saying something about a first rehearsal at six o' clock while muttering curses about the scripts, and remembered thinking he could make it just after cheerleading practice just fine, but it had clean gone out of his head. Thankfully – if his text reading skills were okay – he wasn't in trouble, but had a remedial practice with Satan (okay, Alice) tomorrow before school.

He texted back 8AM EARLY ENUF? and seconds later got a YA. Chacha wasn't known as the fastest texter in the West for nothing.

He reached the steps of the manor, and his phone chimed again: LIAR. HAV SPRED DA WORD BUT SO NOT TRU. U BETA GIV ME DA REAL SCOOP, HALLIWELL. PITA X X X

Chris sighed, and as a precaution against the thousand of get well texts he was sure to receive from the squad, turned off his phone and headed up the steps.

He saw everyone as soon as he walked into the house, putting out plates and getting the table ready for dinner. Worried about being yelled at, he approached the table with an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm back," Chris said softly, sing-song, "sorry I'm late."

Piper smiled at him after placing a large casserole on the table – it smelt like Chicken Teriyaki, which wasn't Chris' favourite, but it was Adam's, so Chris wasn't going to kick up a fuss. Obviously Adam had done well. Chris edged a grin at his younger brother, already sat at table with his knife and fork. Adam beamed back.

"Had a good practice?"

"Uh- Not really," Chris said, taking his seat next to Wyatt and opposite Aunty Paige. "Are they back from the fishing trip yet?"

"No," Paige chimed in, a little grumpily as she sat down. "They're back tomorrow, apparently the fish are great today, so they're staying out a bit more."

"Fun," Perry said, as he entered the room, carrying a basket of bread and placing it on the table as he sat down. Chris tried to avoid looking at him. "Why was your practice not good?"

"Oh," Chris said awkwardly, "I didn't-"

"I've got good news," Wyatt said. "Alice texted me. She got the lead in the musical."

Chris subsided, and played idly with his fork as Phoebe and Paige congratulated Wyatt on Alice's success.

"Give her congratulations from me," Piper said, bustling in with a bowl of rice and a ladle. She sat down. Wyatt puffed up his chest and promised to do so, and Adam started to talk about his English test and how well he did, because it was about Queen Victoria. Victorian England was one of Adam's obsessions, so it was no wonder he'd done really well. Chris pushed his food around on his plate to make it look like he was eating more, and let his brother bask in his glory. However much he hated being ignored, it still wasn't enough to begrudge Adam his hour in the sun.

"Hey," a voice said softly by his side, and Chris turned in surprise to see Perry had shifted his plate closer to his own. "Why was practice so bad? And- is that blood on your cheek? Chris, what happened? Was there a demon?"

As usual, the entire family clattered to a silent halt at the sound of the word 'demon'. Chris felt a surge of anger, which tinged his words as he spoke, angry that the word demon was necessary for them to pay attention to him. He wiped away the blood as he tried and failed to subdue the anger. "There was a demon," he said. "Last night. When it knocked me to the floor, it must have gashed my back without me realising. I mean, it hurt, I just thought it was a sprain or something. Pita noticed that I was bleeding at practice."

Perry froze for a second, and then quickly and deftly moved his hands to Chris' t-shirt, to move it up, but Chris jerked himself away, probably a bit too harshly, as Perry looked at him with confusion, but he was still angry. "Relax," he said. "It's not a problem any more. My whitelighter healed me."

Piper's mouth was working silently for a few seconds before she managed to talk. "Your whitelighter?" She looked ashen, and Chris thought for a second that it was worry over him, until she blurted out, "Your father?"

Chris looked at her, and wished he could subdue the loathing, but he couldn't hide it as he looked at her. "Mrs. Williamson," he said. "At school. My music teacher."

"She's a Whitelighter?" Wyatt said. "The weird grey-haired lady?" He looked a little shocked.

Chris nodded. He had promised to not tell them who she really was, but Prue hadn't made him promise not to tell them he had a Whitelighter.

"You remember Mrs. Williamson, don't you, mom?" Chris said, with a forced casualness as he reached nonchalantly for a bread roll. "From the parents' evening last semester?"

He looked up and smiled at Piper, wide and fake.

Piper blushed a little, but said, "Yeah, of course. The strict grey-haired lady."

"You never said what she said about me," Chris said, just as casually, realising the grey hair is probably what distracted him from noticing her similarity to the photos he'd seen of Prue. _Like Clark Kent and his glasses_. Chris watched Piper for her reaction. He could never remember being so blasé before, and he suddenly realised why – for some reason, he knew the truth. He'd gotten so used to them not caring about _him…_ that he was no longer sure he really cared for them. He loved them, sure. But how much?

"Oh, um," Piper blustered, and swallowed a mouthful of teriyaki, chewing it slowly. "That you could pay more attention in class, but you're a great pianist. Terrific musicality."

Chris' voice was icy, as he said: "Just a great pianist? Nothing about my voice? Or composition? I do recall getting A's in all three."

Piper looked at him slowly, and then blushed as she realised he knew. "I'm sorry. The tribunal were making noises about Leo, and Adam's fluctuating Orbing… I couldn't actually see your teachers, I'm sorry. But none of them have ever called here about you… unlike with Wyatt and his maths teacher… So I knew you weren't having problems, and-"

"You didn't go?" Perry demanded, his voice grating. Piper flushed.

"I had very valid reasons," Piper snapped, angry. "Keeping this family together."

"You shouldn't have lied," Perry said, loud, "and you should have told me. I would have gone."

Chris looked between them, his anger suddenly gone, and he sank into the chair, feeling small. "It's okay."

"No, it's not-" Perry said, angrily.

"It's okay," Chris repeated, putting a hand on Perry's, and Perry instantly subsided, his eyes worryingly searching Chris' face. He must have found something to mollify him, as he sank back into his chair, still mutinously glaring at Piper. "Hey," Chris said, softly, "no need to be this mad at your sister on my account."

Perry looked at him, confused. Chris wasn't as interested in that as he may have been because he was looking at everyone else. Paige and Phoebe were sharing one of those looks that Prue and Andy had. Piper was pale. Only Wyatt and Adam looked innocent – Adam, because he couldn't register emotions anyway. Wyatt was starting to look curious.

"He means me," Piper said quickly, her voice soft.

"Of course," Perry said, just as quickly.

Chris smiled disingenuously. "Of course," he said, his voice neutral, and he resumed eating his dinner, as if nothing had happened.

Inside, though, he was seething with confusion and a bizarre triumph.

All this life, they'd told him Perry was his uncle, and a Halliwell. But for him not to know that Chris meant that Piper was his sister?

_It doesn't happen,_ Chris thought, _you don't live with your sister, and then not realise she's your sister._

Chris didn't know for sure what it all meant. He couldn't piece it together.

Perry was a Halliwell. They'd had a thousand moments of proof in the past. Blood spells, calling one Halliwell to another. An old orb programmed only to Halliwell magic that Perry had used.

But Perry wasn't Piper's brother, as they'd always claimed. They always had claimed he was. It didn't make sense, unless he was a cousin? But if he were a cousin, why would they lie?

But something in there did make sense. If Perry was a cousin, then that meant another Halliwell bloodline existed. That would be something they'd need to keep secret – if the Charmed Ones (although he didn't want to think about it) ever were eradicated, and Chris, Sam, Adam and Wyatt killed too, if there was still a strand of Halliwell magic alive, then they still had a chance.

Chris sighed inwardly, and forced himself to finish his dinner, absolutely miserable. His theory made sense. Perry was a cousin, and not his father.

It was such a horrible disappointment.

Chris tried to come up with a different theory as Piper brought out a strawberry jam roulade for afters, and even though it was one of his favourite puddings, it tasted like ash in his mouth.

The theories he could come up with were rubbish.

Perry could have been a Halliwell ancestor, brought forwards through time. That way he could still be Chris' real father, and would explain why Chris had Halliwell magic. But Chris had looked through the Halliwell family tree, and all the deaths had been explained, and often supported in actual history as well as magical history.

He could be a male clone of Piper, weirdly morphed by magic, which would explain why Perry didn't think of Piper as his sister…

He could be a demon impostor. He could be from the future. He could be a figment of all their collective imaginations.

"You've eaten it all," Wyatt said, laughing and digging Chris in the side. Chris blinked, and looked at his plate, realising he'd eaten all his dessert. He must have been hungry after all.

"Oh," was all Chris said. Then he got to his feet woozily, his head pounding, although he could barely feel that above his heart – fluttering weirdly against his chest – and his stomach, which was churning uneasily. "I have to go lie down," he said, pushing his chair back and striding to the stairs down to the basement. He was vaguely aware of Perry calling his name, but he didn't want to hear it.

He ran down the stairs, shut himself in his room, and lay down on his bed. Grabbing onto the pillows, he held them over his head, and started to cry.

_It hurts, doesn't it?_ _Don't you just wish they'd go away? You could make them go away. You could make them all go away._

The thoughts just kept coming, thick and fast.

_This is ridiculous. You are talented and amazing, everyone says so, and they treat you like crap and you take it. You're better then them. One day you're going to die, and they're not even going to notice. So take notice now. Make them notice you._

Miserably sinking into his own deadly thoughts, Chris tried to question them. _How?_

_Blood_, the thoughts responded. _Theirs_. _You can-_

But he must have landed on his phone when he threw himself on his bed, and it chimed, dragging him out of the horrid thoughts he'd had off and on all his life, but they'd been getting more regular recently. When he was smaller, they'd come a couple of times a year, now they were weekly. He supposed it was all part of this puberty thing they kept going on about.

He lifted up his phone. _54 new messages_. Scrolling down, he saw one of them was from Bianca. He smiled, until he read it: HEARD ABOUT BLOOD. U OK HERO? BIANCA :)

He ought to be happy. She'd texted him, cared enough to ask, and she'd even used her pet name for him – hero, after he saved her during a demon attack.

But normally – and he scrolled through her other texts to be sure – she ended her texts with XX. Two kisses. Sometimes even three. Now it was back to a smile. He knew girls just used a smile to be friendly, an X to be flirty. It was proper text etiquette. What had changed? She'd almost kissed him, for real, and she had kissed him on the cheek, but now she was just being friendly?

With anger again, he remembered her flirting with Perry, and he wasn't crying any more – he was just mad. He slammed the wall with his fist, although he regretted it afterwards, and he looked through all the other texts, to see if there was anything better. Most of them were GET WELL SOON XXX messages (even the girls on his squad sent flirty texts, although he was quite distant and refrained from flirting with them during practice, although some of them tried) and some messages were from girls in his other classes. They must have gotten his number from the class schedules or something. Gossip sure spread fast.

He took advantage of his thousands of free texts (Phoebe had done an advertising campaign ten years ago for a huge phone network, and the company gave them great deals even now) to text back everyone on his contact list and everyone who had texted him, to tell them it was just a practical joke. He typed each text individually just to keep his mind occupied.

And even though some more people texted, it didn't fully keep his mind off everything that had happened. Even one text from Kit: I SAID COME OUT, I DIDN'T MEAN COME OUT IN FAKE BLOOD. KIT :D in full proper English (Kit didn't believe in text language, even if it meant paying more to type a longer message) couldn't raise his spirit too much.

It was like he was stuck in a grump.

He supposed there was only one thing for it.

He turned off the light with a flick of his hand (magic was useful sometimes) and lay down and tried to get some sleep.

And woke up in a graveyard.

Disconcerted, it took Chris a few moments to realise he had fallen asleep, and was lucid dreaming. He'd always been able to lucid dream – his Aunt Paige said something about magic affecting REM or something or other – so he didn't worry too much about being in a cemetery. He closed his eyes and wished to be somewhere else, and when he opened his eyes, was surprised to find he hadn't moved.

Normally that worked – he could wish himself anywhere. Usually he wished himself to a music practice room, to play piano, even in some rare occasions to the library, so he could do some studying while he slept. He either slept dreamlessly, like the night before, or lucid dreamt – which was probably why the weird nightmare about Wyatt had freaked him out so much, he'd had absolutely no control over it.

Chris was sure it wasn't entirely right to be able to lucid dream so much and so often – it often felt like he didn't sleep at all, he just roamed the real world during the day, and the dream world during the night.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed the power he had over his dreams, so the very rare occasions – like last night, he thought, and subconsciously held his arm in worry – when he didn't have any control absolutely freaked him out.

Even though he couldn't wish himself away from the cemetery, or wish anyone into it to help him, he found he could still walk around, so he did.

Most of the gravestones were new, and marked with years of death around 2020 – three years ago. He checked them quickly, moving amongst the newest ones with a fast efficiency. There was one in July 2020 - that seemed to be the latest, a couple of months before his 15th birthday.

But then one stone caught his attention, and he knelt down by it in disbelief: Sheryl Morris. Beloved wife of Darryl, beloved mother. June 2020. _What?_ Sheryl was still alive – he'd seen her a couple of days ago, alive and walking around in 2023. She hadn't died in 2020…

Chris laughed at himself then, and shook his head. This was a _dream_ and he was taking it _seriously_. He really was a dork sometimes.

He got to his knees, automatically brushed the dirt off his knees even though he was in a dream, and started looking at who else his mind had conjured up to have died.

And that's when he came across them, seven gravestones stood apart from the rest.

Paige Matthews. Phoebe Halliwell. Piper Halliwell. Daniel Gordon. Melinda Halliwell. Leo Wyatt. Paul Halliwell.

_Melinda and Paul_?

Chris stared, unwilling to look at the dates. In a rush of trembling courage, he looked. The Charmed Ones had obviously died together, August 5th, 2020. Dan had lasted longer – August 11th 2020. Melinda had died later still – August 25th 2020, on the same day as Leo. And Paul had died the earliest – February 14th, 2020.

Paul was Chris' middle name – so it was a family name. Chris dropped to his knees again, oddly touched by the last grave. Paul Halliwell. He thought for a second that it could have been Perry – but the date of birth defied that idea – May 10th 2007. Eight months after his birthday in September… And below the date, an inscription: "Beloved son of Paige Matthews and Dan Gordon."

Chris stared at the engraving, his fingers tracing it in a mounting horror – where were all these facts and figures coming from? Dreams came from inside you, deep in your subconscious – is this how morbid is unconsciousness was? Dan and Paige had never had children, and now they were probably too old… It was sad – Chris would have liked to have more than one cousin, and from the look of things, he would have had two – Paul, and on a quick cursory glance, Melinda – the daughter of Phoebe and Coop. Whoever that was – unless that was just Chris' mind misspelling Cole really badly.

He was finding it difficult to reconcile this dream with the fact that it was a dream – it felt real. He got to his knees, wincing at the ache in them, and that was when he heard the voices. Panicking, he quickly saw a nearby tree, and quickly shimmied it, hiding up in the leafy branches, glad this dream cemetery was in summer and so the tree was in full bloom.

He watched as two figures approached the grave, the prerequisite bunches of carnations in their hands, and when they got close, that's when he realised who they were – it was his granddad… and him.

He watched his dream-self, _about the age of fourteen_ he thought, place carnations on the graves. Dream-Chris was shaking, and looked very pale and anaemic, and almost skeletal. Victor had his arm around dream-Chris' waist, and looked more over Chris than at the graves.

"It's not fair," dream-Chris said. "We can't stay here long. He'll find us."

Chris wondered who 'he' was.

"You said yourself, the cemetery masks magic," Victor said, his voice soothing.

"Exactly," dream-Chris said. "Wyatt knows this is the one place magic is hidden. If he searches for me and can't find me, he'll try here first."

"Or the underground?" Victor said, his voice tentative. Chris was impressed – he'd never heard his grandfather really get with the magic lingo before. But then he'd never seen his grandfather looking so ill. His skin was almost yellow, and Chris realised this wasn't grief. There was a blue spot visible just above Victor's open collar of his shirt – a target to guide radiation. This Victor was dying of cancer. From the yellowed stains of his fingers, probably lung cancer.

Chris felt glad his granddad had given up smoking years ago – when he was born. And that's when he realised what his dream-self had said – that Wyatt was the one who would 'find them'. They sounded _scared_ of his older brother. Why would that be? Wyatt was powerful, yeah, and he could kick demon ass better than any of them, even Chris reluctantly could admit that, but why would they be scared, unless…

Unless Wyatt was the one that killed the Charmed Ones? If this was some alternative reality, maybe Wyatt was evil, and killed them, and somehow he survived, and…

_And you're taking this dream seriously again,_ Chris thought, trying to chide himself, but for some reason he couldn't. This felt too real, too raw, too…

Victor and dream-Chris started to walk away, and Chris decided to follow them, so he clambered down the tree as quietly as he could. He didn't want to startle them, in case they could somehow hear him. He landed with a quiet thump, and pushing his hair down over his face, he casually slid onto the path Victor and dream-Chris were walking, and was about to follow them when he saw someone else.

A figure he knew very well.

It was his Uncle (_or not_) Perry, and he was standing at a distance, also watching Victor and dream-Chris. Chris just had time to flatten himself behind a larger gravestone when Perry began to move. It was Perry as he'd seen him at dinner – still in the same clothes.

He watched as Perry walked to the gravestones, a pained expression on his face, and he watched as Perry dropped to his knees in front of Paul's gravestone – his fingers tracing where Chris' had traced minutes before. Except Perry's fingers weren't moving with confusion.

Chris watched as Perry collapsed against the gravestone, his forehead against the stone. Perry's shoulders were shaking. And then Perry spoke: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."

Chris stared, as Perry turned and leant against it, covering his face with his hands, his feet curling beneath him, and he stepped backwards to try and creep away – but he must have made a sound, because Perry's hands dropped from his face, and Perry got to his feet instantly, his face haunted and drawn. Chris hid behind the gravestone, hugging his knees, and squeezing his eyes tight shut as he rocked. _Please stop please stop don't let him find me don't let him find me-_

And then he was back in his room, on his bed, his hands still wrapped around his knees. His eyes snapped open, and he breathed hard in shock, until he heard a familiar skittering of feet down the stairs, and somehow he knew it was Perry, coming to check on him. And he knew had somehow been in Perry's dream.

He knew he had to pretend he hadn't seen what he'd seen, even though his stomach was curling slowly, bubbling in realisation. He forced himself to quickly get up, and he used his powers to straighten the covers and bring out his maths books. Spreading them around, and flicking his hand to make them all open to the right pages, he got his pen and started in the middle of the homework he'd abandoned yesterday – it looked as if he'd been working for a while.

There was a knock at the door. Despite the inner tumult, Chris forced himself to lift his chin, and face down Perry as if nothing was wrong. But everything was wrong. Everything. Everything.

"Come in," Chris said, surprised at how level he managed to make his voice until he realised it was his acting training kicking in. He held onto that thought.

Perry peeked his head around the corner. "Are you okay? I thought I'd come check on you after dinner, but I must have fallen asleep."

Perry came and sat down at the end of Chris' bed. Chris forced a sheepish smile. "More's the luck – I tried to get to sleep, but couldn't."

"You couldn't?" Perry obviously thought he'd hidden the relief in his voice, but Chris caught it, and he kept the smile up even though he wanted to- Well, Chris didn't exactly know what to do. And he didn't know who to turn to. Because this was huge. If Chris was right, if that had been Perry's _memory_…

"Guilt," Chris said, his tone even. Something darkened in Perry's eyes, and Chris felt sick, but kept going. "Over my unfinished maths homework," he added, holding up the book for illustration.

Perry pulled a face. "Polynomials? I don't know how you have the patience."

"I don't," Chris said, struggling to keep his tone even and light. "But you and me have that exact same stubborn streak." He smiled quickly.

"Yes, we do," Perry said, with a slightly troubled grin. "Don't stay up too late, sproglet." He leaned forwards to ruffle Chris' hair, but Chris dodged away. Perry pulled back, still looking troubled.

"Not until I get this hair cut," Chris said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

"But it's more fun when it's long," Perry teased, getting up off the bed, and automatically dusting his knees.

The gesture, so familiar and personal, almost made Chris gag, but he forced himself to say, "I'll not stay up too late. Good night."

"I hope you do get to sleep," Perry said, winking and leaving the room.

As soon as the door closed, Chris dropped all pretence, and unsteadily got to his feet. He efficiently and quietly threw up into his waste bin, and with a tricky quick Orb, managed to Orb it outside before it made his room smell.

He sat on his bed, knees together, in an oddly formal position, amongst the maths debris.

Somehow, he'd gotten into Perry's dream, which was why he had no control.

And Perry's dream was some sort of memory – Chris had lucid dreamed quite a few of his own memories, wanting to watch them again, see if he could pick up any clues as to why his family was ignoring him, or to check he wasn't making up the fact they were ignoring him. He knew how those dreams felt.

Everything made a sudden, painful sense. Every fact slammed awkwardly into position. Chris' heart hurt, hurt so much that he almost threw up again.

Forcing himself to breathe so he wouldn't have a panic attack, Chris made a list of the facts, and came to same conclusion.

Perry was too much like him – exactly same appearance, same voice, same mannerisms.

From the dream, Chris had to conclude something had happened. Somehow, Wyatt had originally turned evil, killed most of the family, for some reason not killing Chris. And Chris knew exactly what he would have done in the same circumstances – come to the past, to find out what made Wyatt evil, and stop it.

It had worked, obviously. Wyatt was a bit mean, sure, but not evil.

But now everything made perfect, sharp, complete sense.

Why everyone thought they already knew him.

Because in a weird way, they did.

Because he'd come back to the past, saved Wyatt, and then he'd stuck around – changed his name.

For a second, as he breathed unsteadily, Chris wondered if this was his fate – to go back in time and become Perry – but the dates on the gravestones didn't match.

Perry was Chris. From an alternate future.

Shaken, but absolutely now knowing he was right, Chris shuffled back on the bed, putting his back against the wall.

He reached for his phone, and disregarded the 43 new messages.

He needed to talk to someone, who wasn't related, who wasn't part of the whole mess. Normally he might have talked to Bianca, but he realised with a sick thought that she might already know – it would explain why she flirted with Perry. Chris knew exactly how he felt about Bianca – Perry must feel it too. Of course they were both in love with her, because they were both the same person.

He didn't have anyone to go to, not that he didn't think was part of the mess.

What he wanted to do was talk to Kit. But he couldn't, he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about his magic, and-

_I'm not _allowed?_ They've lied to me my whole life about this, and I'm worrying about what _they _allow me to do??_

Steeling himself, and realising he wasn't confused any more – just more of the same, burning anger that had grabbed hold of him during dinner – he opened up phone and typed in one message to Kit: DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC? CHRIS.

Breathing slowly, trying to stop the anger burning in his abdomen, Chris held his phone in his hand, which he realised was trembling, and he realised he was scared. What did this all mean, for him as an individual? And how was Kit going to react?

That latter question he discovered he didn't really have to worry about too much, for in that moment a weird keening sound filled the room, and then with a soft _pop!_ Kit appeared in his bedroom, looking a little dishevelled, but with an earnestness burning in his dark eyes.

Kit had his phone in his hand, and Chris could see the message displayed on the pale green screen.

In consternation he stared up at his friend.

Kit smiled, held up the message as if it was an explanation, and said: "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**To be continued**


	4. Chapter the Fourth

**Unwell**

Sequel to "Neurotic". Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do?

Disclaimer: If Charmed belonged to me, Chris would have his own spin-off. Does he? NO. So does Charmed belong to me? … NO. Young Wizards™ also does not belong to me. Kudos to all who figured out where Kit was from. :D

Author's Notes: OMG FLAIL I'M SO SORRY. Seriously, over a two year gap and I AM SO SORRY I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

Please accept my sincerest apologies!!!

----

**Chapter the Fourth**

"Surprise"

-----

"_Books are a uniquely portable magic_."

Stephen King

-----

Chris waved up a silence barrier.

The last thing he needed was for his family to hear him start to yell, even though Chris wasn't quite sure yelling was at the top of his to-do list.

He threw something instead – his pillow.

Kit side-stepped it, and sat next to him on the bed.

"You have no right to be mad," Kit said, quickly. "You didn't tell me you were a witch, I didn't tell you I was a wizard. Fair's fair."

Chris spluttered for a second. "There are no wizards left."

Kit stared at him flatly, then rolled his eyes and muttered something in Spanish that Chris knew he could decode if he let his Whitelighter powers out to play, but he didn't feel like it. "Not _your_ kind of wizard," he said. "Same principle of witchcraft, but we use words. You know, I'm so jealous of your powers, though. It would take me half an hour to persuade the air to do what you managed in _seconds_."

"Oh," Chris said. "Huh?"

Kit held out his hand, and something popped into it – a small beaten up book that Chris had seen Kit carry on occasion. He held out the book. Chris read the title.

"You've got to be kidding," Chris said, reading the title out loud, "'So You Want To Be A Wizard'?"

"Got to be kidding, says the son of a Charmed One," Kit said, shaking his head.

"But you lied-"

"Ah-ah-ah, Mr. Hypocrite," Kit said, waggling his finger and grinning. "You lied too. Don't start that nonsense. And don't start thinking I'm the same as your family – as soon as you tell the full truth to me, I tell the full truth to you. That's how it works."

"I guess," Chris said, still a little stunned. "You knew I was the son of a Charmed One?"

"I read the history book on your family," Kit said. "And the history of the manor. It didn't take long to put two and two together. But if it helps, I only put two and two together about three months after becoming your friend."

"That makes me feel _so_ much better," Chris said.

Kit shot him a look. "Whatever. Anyway – I believe in magic. What got you to snap and decide to tell me?"

Chris realised he had two options – one, stay mad (and unreasonably so, since Kit was right, it would be hypocritical to stay mad) and lose Kit as a friend, or two, talk about it. So he explained everything he'd experienced.

And then he explained the theory he'd come up with.

The theory he knew – even though he didn't have any solid proof as yet, it was singing in his blood, in his magic – was right.

"So that's it," Chris finished heavily. "Perry's me, from the future. The reason they ignore me is they've already got a version around they prefer. I mean, think about it. Why would they feel the need to get to know me, when they already know me?"

Kit was silent for a second. His expression was hard, and he hadn't interrupted Chris at all, he had just let him speak. "It does make sense," he said, eventually. "But you can't take it from granted that you're right." Chris' mouth moved like a fish. "It's ninety-five per cent likely. But you can't go getting all mad, at least not until we have proof."

"Great," Chris said, "back to square one."

"Chris, if it's true, though…" Kit trailed off. "Then he had to have had a completely different life from you. And nurture is worth so much more than nature. Even if you're genetically the same person, maybe even had all the same experiences up to a certain age… you're you. You're Chris."

Chris narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Have you been reading those self esteem books you're your mom keeps leaving around your house?"

Kit shot him a look, but didn't answer.

"So I take it that's a yes?"

"Wizards use words and only words, so I have to be careful with the words I use," Kit explained, "so I can't lie."

"But it's kind of a lie of omission," Chris said. "Which is the worst kind of lie."

"There's a worse kind," Kit said, and something in his face closed off. Chris exhaled slowly.

"So we're back to the original plan?" Chris said doubtfully.

"Seems like it," Kit said, and grinned. "But now I can use magic at your house." Kit wiggled his fingers. "Maybe we can make it a bit more fun."

Chris grinned as Kit started to outline his ideas, definitely glad now he had no secrets from Kit at all.

-----

The next day, Chris wished he'd remembered Pita had said she wanted the truth, because then he might have had more time to come up with a better lie. She'd just clattered over to him with her lunch tray, and plonked herself in front of him with an expression on her face that he knew well.

"I want an answer, Halliwell," his second-in-command said, before he could say anything to her first.

Chris narrowed his eyes at Pita, and gave a default answer, hoping Pita wouldn't realise he was stalling for time. "Forty-two."

"_Not_ an answer to life, the universe and everything, freak. What was up with the blood last night?"

"Prank."

Pita looked unconvinced. Chris tried a different approach, sliding closer to her, looking up at her through his eyelashes, hoping a puppy-dog expression would work. "You know how Adam is," Chris said, forcing his voice to be soft, slightly broken. "He has trouble differentiating what would make a good joke and what would make a pretty scary joke, y'know? With his problems?"

Pita's eyes softened, and she put a hand on his shoulder, her face twisting in sympathy. Chris felt a twinge of guilt, but it wasn't the first time he had used Adam's real-life issues as a mask for his magic. "I'm sorry."

Chris gave a one-shouldered shrug. "These things happen."

"Soooo… Kit accosted me in the hallway earlier. I thought he was asking me out for a minute. Dashed my hopes." Pita shared a secret grin with him. Pita often joked long and loud about her eternal love for Kit, which embarrassed Kit to no pieces. Pita said it was a joke, but Chris wasn't too sure it was. "I thought your family neglected you. Not that you were just too shy to tell them you were a cheerleader."

Chris couldn't help it – the automatic blush was something as unstoppable as his automatic babbling with he was nervous. Pita just leaned forward and pinched his cheek.

"Uh," Chris said. He fidgeted with his knife a little, prodding the casserole he'd been given to give him something to do with his hands. "They would tease me to pieces," he mumbled. "Same with the music and dancing. It's just, I was never confident enough about any of it before to tell them. It's hard to stick to something if your whole family is laughing at you."

"You don't think they would be supportive?" Pita cocked her head a little, her dark eyes trained on him. "They're supportive of Wyatt."

Chris looked away quickly. She'd struck a nerve, and he hadn't wanted it to show. He covered it up with a smile in her direction as quickly as he could, but Pita wasn't stupid. "It's different," Chris said, hating the sad and knowing expression on her face.

"It's not fully about your confidence, not telling your family, is it?" Pita kindly reached over, took Chris's abandoned food and swapped it with her own cellophane wrapped sandwich from home, quickly biting into his food before he could protest. He looked at her gratefully, and unwrapped her sandwich. He hated canteen food, and his whole squad knew it. One of his favorite practise cheers was one that mocked it.

"No." He exhaled a little, and then looked at her. "Adam takes up a lot of time for my mom. And with my dad in trouble at work, and Wyatt's college applications, and the family business… I'm just…

I've never been a priority, I guess." Chris usually prided himself on his ability to pretend to be okay, because it had been second nature to him for so long, that telling the truth was hard.

But Kit had been right, earlier. The truth was the best thing. And if he couldn't have it at home, then at least he could have it with his friends.

"That does explain a lot," Pita said.

"How so?"

"The way you insist on being one hundred per cent amazing at everything." She gave him a companionable shove with her shoulder. "Leave some greatness for the rest of us, okay, thanks?"

Chris smiled at her, and opened his mouth, ready to say something but then Kit clattered down next to him.

"LOVER BOY!" Pita gave a squeal and immediately scrambled over the table to sit in Kit's lap. Chris couldn't help but laugh, and Kit caught his eye, looking furious. It was reassuring. That even if Chris opened up to someone, the world wouldn't end.

He didn't stop smiling for a long time.

---------

Chris probably would have spent the entire evening depressed if it hadn't been for Pita and Kit.

He hadn't been able to stop grinning all the way through gymnastics ("_Chris, why are you smiling? That shoulder roll was the wonkiest shoulder roll in the history of life"_), drama (_"Chris, why are you smiling? This is a Shakespeare tragedy, not comedy")_, maths (_"Chris, thank you for proving my joke about imaginary numbers didn't go over everyone's head"_), and cheerleading practise (oh, wait, no teachers there to say anything embarrassing), and that much grinning was only sure to lead to depression afterwards. It was usually the way with extreme happiness.

Not that it had happened much with Chris. Usually because of his friends, or Sam. Once or twice because of Wyatt or Adam. Never with his mom or dad or aunts.

Still, he was _happy_. And it was such an alien feeling outside of dancing and singing and performing that it made him angry too – but he figured that was probably down to hormones or something. He'd been steadily getting angrier for as long as he could remember (like those dark thoughts, those _kill everything_ thoughts) but he was also getting stronger, too, so he could hide it and push it away. He had a thousand distractions to help him do so.

Except, the problem was all the times Chris had been happy before in his life, something happened straight afterwards, something that made the happy times sucky. It was why he didn't believe in happy-ever-afters for anyone, because happiness was always punctuated (emphasised) with misery soon after. _Or maybe happy ever afters only don't exist for me_.

Ah. There it was. The depression. Still – Chris eyeballed the clock – it was eight o' clock. At least he'd had two hours of lingering happiness.

He stared at his drama homework (an essay on good and evil) and then at his pen, as if it could magically come to life and write itself for him. It was especially bad a thought at times like this, because Chris knew he was mere metres away from a spell that _could_ do it for him. Many witches lost their way and became warlocks because of that pulling temptation to use magic for personal gain. Chris could definitely understand how it could become addictive.

He sighed, and his phone beeped. He glanced sideways at the clock again. Eight o' clock. Huh. He'd almost completely forgotten Kit's nefarious plan. (Kit's nefarious plans were easily wiped out of Chris's head when vying with one of Kit's hilarious expressions, and the memory of Kit's face when Pita climbed all over in the refectory was still freaking priceless.) He grinned to himself and shut his Macbeth textbook closed. He hesitated before leaving his room and decided against pulling on his cheerleading nationals sweatshirt from last year – too many shocks at one was probably not a good idea.

Pushing his door open, Chris jogged up the stairs and pushed the door open, blinking at the bright light of the kitchen. The lights down in the basement were of a duller wattage to the rest of the house, so emerging into the kitchen always felt a little weird.

For someone who loved performing as much as he did, it still startled Chris how self conscious he felt around his own family.

Thankfully, all the attention was not on him, but Sam – bless his odd little heart.

Nearly everyone was there, crowded in on the dining room table chairs and balancing on stools. Uncle Dan was snuggling with Paige up on the counter top, Cole was busy trying to hide his head in a cookbook or something (an obvious sign everyone was distracted – normally any Halliwell who saw Cole or Aunt Phoebe with a cookbook had a duty to get the book away from them _stat_), Piper had her arms around Adam, Wyatt and the antichrist- whoops, Alice – were looking up at Sam from the floor. Grandpa Victor had a chair next to, well, old Chris-fake-Uncle-Perry-dirtbag. Bianca was there too, leaning against the fridge, her dark eyes on Sam's face and a large smile on her face. Leo wasn't there, but the Elders weren't going to get him out of prison just because Sam was home, after all. Aunt Phoebe wasn't there – she must still have been out at the office.

The smell of fish was thick in the air, and Chris noted with a twinge the dirty frying pans in the sink. He hadn't smelled the fish cooking, but they must have cooked the haul they brought back, eaten it, and not thought to save any for him. It was typical behaviour, but now Chris looked on it with the eye of the truth – they wouldn't realise he was missing out, because if Uncle Perry was there, they would assume he was there. In a weird sort of way, he _was_.

Chris leaned against one of the cupboards and tuned into the story Sam was telling.

"---and then Cole remembered reading something about hay and stones, so he started digging a _pit_ to cook the eel in, even though Dan and Grandpa Vic were half way cooking the thing just a metre away. Which is funny enough, except he took the stew they gave him – made of the eel of course – ate it, and then went back to digging the pit. To cook the eel in that he'd just eaten."

Chris thought of the joke he would tell at school as the family laughed at the tale, suppressed it out of habit – and then felt sick, like there was too much acid in his stomach, and before he could stop it, he said it. "It's a pity it's not Christmas yet – we could have totally got away with singing the first no-eel at this point."

"Chrrriiiiiiiis," Sam bellowed, tossing his girlishly long hair and clambering over the chairs, launching himself and tripping up over Grandpa Victor's lap, landing in a heap on the floor. "I missssssed."

Chris rolled his eyes, laughing, and put an arm down. Normally he would just let Sam pull himself up (Sam won the clumsiest person in the _world_ award daily) – but no, he was a new Chris. He leaned down and pretty much just manhandled his favourite – okay, only – cousin to his feet.

Sam grinned. Chris realised his cousin was wearing very pink lipstick, and a pink tutu. Over regular clothes – black combat trousers, black combat boots, black t-shirt. Paired with the pink tutu, lipstick, and… was that pink hair extensions too clipped in? Actually, Chris considered, it was fairly restrained. For Sam.

"You missed me and the floor. I'm so proud," Chris deadpanned.

"Ooh, you grew muscles and a spine this weekend. Color me super impressed." Sam twirled, winked at Adam, and settled in next to Chris.

"Super impressed is pink?"

"Well. A dull crimson." Sam looked at Chris curiously. "Are you all right?"

Sam was, by far, the best member of the Halliwell family in existence. Excluding Aunt Prue. Well, scratch her, she was dead. On reflection, Sam probably treated _everyone_ like they were special, but Sam noticed Chris, which made him by far Chris's favourite. Even now, the family had turned away from them. _Because Sam's talking to _me_ and not them. I can see that now. _Chris risked a thought that he nearly didn't dare risk, because if it wasn't true he didn't think he could stand it. _Does Sam notice how they turn away from me too?_

Sam was frowning – waiting for an answer. Chris flushed, flustered.

"I'm-" Fine, was what he was about to say. But he wasn't. "I'm, uh. Feeling a little unwell." Understatement. But close to the truth.

"_Unwell_." Sam rolled the word around his mouth like it was a boiled sweet of an unfamiliar taste.

"Nothing bad," Chris hurried to add, feeling flummoxed and hot, and why did he ever think this _being true to oneself_ crap was a good idea anyway? _Because you keep putting yourself down, and you're invisible to people who are supposed to see you._ He had to stay strong. He had to believe he was allowed to be noticed as much as he noticed his family. "Just. Feeling…" And maybe that was it. He risked looking at Sam directly in the eyes. He rarely did that – even with Sam, who spent more time with him than anyone. _And even now you realise that's barely five minutes a day and that's way more time than anyone else spends with you. And look at you, you're desperate for even those five minutes, like a beggar seeking crumbs from a table._ "Feeling." Chris finished, oddly.

"Well, kid-" Sam was two years younger than Chris. Kid was _always_ annoying. "-keep it up, because you handled me like I was a feather, wow wee, Mr. Junior Strongman." Sam patted him manly on the shoulder, and turned off to speak to Wyatt.

Who, of course, brought up what he'd been talking about non-stop. "Duuude," Wyatt crowed to Sam. "Alicia got the lead in the school musical."

"Sweet-as-baby-cakes, dude," Sam said. "Grease, isn't it?"

"Yup," Alice said, honey-sweet. She edged a small look at Chris and steadfastly looked away. Chris narrowed his eyes. _Antichrist_, he vowed. _I'll end you_. It was probably, Chris reckoned, a very good idea that Wyatt could not hear his internal monologues. Chris spent a good five minutes every day plotting Alice's impending doom. She was an evil heinous cow and that Wyatt couldn't see it was incredibly _lame_.

"So you're playing Sandy?" Sam continued. "Who got the role of your love interest? Because Grease is kind of steamy for its time. I do not envy you, Wy, watching your girl get groped and slobbered over daily."

Wyatt looked like he'd been blindsided by a flying piano. "I hadn't even thought about it," Wyatt said in a small voice. "But I'll beat him up."

"Wyatt!" Alice shrieked.

"After the musical, babe," Wyatt conceded. He turned wide blue eyes to the personification of Satan on earth. _Okay. Onto Alicia. _Chris scowled. He probably should give her the courtesy of her real name, just in case he ever completely babbled his pet name for her out loud.

Remembering the dream with Wyatt hurting him almost made him falter, especially with the added conviction that in one timeline Wyatt had been as evil a sonnovabitch as his current beau, but this was the kind of opening Kit had said might happen. Chris swallowed down the anxiety, and leaned past Wyatt and Alicia to grab an apple off the island.

"Well, it's nice to get pre-warning of when I'm going to be beaten up for once," Chris said, winked at Wyatt, and then – in a fit of daring that he didn't even know he possessed – tucked a stray bit of Alice's hair behind her ears, said in a low seductive voice, "Sweetie pie", and pulled away, trying very hard not to laugh as he casually walked towards the basement.

"_You_ got the role of Danny?" Wyatt said it kinda loudly – everyone turned to look at Chris. He flushed but turned around to face his brother – he kept cool eye contact with Wyatt, and Chris shrugged as diplomatically as he could manage.

"Why, does that sound unbelievable? I've been going to the same drama group as her for the last eight years." Chris tried to sound righteously confused. Well, that's what he was aiming for. It was probably, from Wyatt's slightly murderous expression, coming out as smug instead. Wyatt _hated_ smug people. In fact, Chris thought languorously, holding Wyatt's gaze in his own (for two reasons – one, he felt slightly dangerous and two, it negated looking at everyone else and he wasn't brave enough to do that) Wyatt's hatred of smug people could have _easily_ led to him trying to eradicate them all and turning to evil overlordship to personally remove smugness from the world. And probably farting, too.

The truth of the words hit Wyatt – he deflated visibly. "I'm just surprised, is all," he mumbled, and looked down at his feet. He looked back up, accusing. "You didn't say."

This was the point, in past almost-confrontations (although never to this scale), where Chris would mumble something – anything – to make the conflict go away. Aunt Paige reliably had informed him once that she was much the same. Phoebe was the complete opposite. Even though she wasn't there, he took a page out of her book. "Well, I tried. Only-" He hesitated, and that's when he did look around, and everyone's gazes were on him. He steeled himself. "I'm getting extremely tired of just trying to say things. And I-" All the anger of the last couple of days multiplied in his stomach. "I'm getting tired of _having_ to try to say some things. Did you even notice I wasn't here? Didn't you even think when Sam got in I might want to welcome him back too?"

"I didn't-" Wyatt started, clearly feeling he was somehow all to blame. Chris quickly decided he would have to deal with the clean up later and try to explain to Wyatt that it wasn't exactly him he was mad at – for now, he hoped Wyatt wouldn't spurn him forever. And if he did, well. Chris would cross that bridge when he got to it. "I didn't notice." Wyatt's voice was really small. And from the way it echoed in the suddenly pin-drop-quiet room, he wasn't alone.

It was Piper that got to her feet, surprising Chris. He looked at her, something inside of him twisting, hoping she didn't look disappointed. She didn't. She looked kinda sad, though, and Chris felt instantly, wretchedly miserable. _This was a bad idea_.

"Honey-" she said, and that's what almost broke Chris. His mouth twisted despite his resolve to see this through, be brave, break out, do what Kit suggested and be _himself_. _But being myself is so hard_. He fought the inexplicable tears that wanted to fall. "I-"

But whatever platitude Piper was about to try and use was forever abandoned when something very loudly went _pop!_ and then something large and human shaped appeared out in the garden. A crash followed – maybe a plant pot breaking – and there was a small flurry of cursing in Spanish.

Ah. Chris's heart plummeted a little. Kit.

"What the hell?" Uncle Dan was first to the door – he blinked out in confusion, and then even more bewildered stepped aside to let Kit come into the kitchen. He was brushing some sort of dust from his clothes.

"Damn moon dust gets everywhere," Kit said, really loudly. He locked gazes with Chris across the kitchen. "Hey."

"Hey," Chris said, a little perplexed as he stared at his dusty friend. "Is that actually… _moon_ dust?"

"I meet a friend on Copernicus from time to time," Kit said.

"You meet a what on the where now?" Paige demanded, jumping down from the counter.

"He's a wizard," Chris offered, as Kit opened his mouth to explain. "The word kind. I think the manual-" (Chris had done a little research after Kit had left him the previous night) "-calls him a wordsmith?"

"_What_?" Uncle Perry demanded, looking between Chris and Kit with a completely shocked expression which Chris was suddenly and perversely pleased to see.

"That's me," Kit said, holding his hands out like he was no threat. "We're good. Check the manual."

"Yours or ours?" Chris quipped.

Most of the family was gaping like a goldfish in open air, Chris noticed.

"Yours. I can tamper with mine." Kit looked at Uncle Perry curiously, said something in a liquid language that sounded almost beautiful, like a bell, and then said directly to Perry, "Last time I saw you, you were a book." Kit paused thoughtfully. "_And_ I wrote in you. That's kind of odd."

"Uh-" Perry said.

Chris really didn't understand. He shot Kit a look. Kit sent him a pacifying one.

Cole hurried back into the room with the book. Chris felt bad – he hadn't notice him leave. "Yes," Cole said. "I thought I'd heard of them. Wordsmiths are like witches, but the speak the language of all things. They're not so well known because their craft takes so much longer and is harder to memorise than witchcraft."

"So why do they exist?" Wyatt piped up, curious.

"Because there's a couple of jobs only we can do," Kit said, brushing more moon dust (_moon_ dust!) from his pants. "Like, knotting the fabric of the universe back together when one of your warlocks gets it into his head to rip it. We also deal fully with the Powers and the Lone One, and we go to war with things you should be very glad you don't have to."

"Huh," Wyatt said. "And you're one? Cool."

"And you're twice blessed. That's kind of cool, too." Kit grinned at Wyatt, and then turned his attention to Chris. "You finished that drama essay yet? Because I need so much help it's unreal."

"Have I ever not," Chris said. "I'll go fetch what I've got. I'm sure Piper won't mind if we borrow the dining table to work on it?" He looked at her challengingly.

"No," Piper said, "but-"

"Sorted," Chris said, and turned to go to his room. He worried about being stopped, and Orbed down – he was vaguely aware of hearing someone shout his name, but he couldn't care less. When he reappeared by his bed, he sank onto it, and realised he was shaking. Of _course_ he should be shaking, that was a huge thing he'd just done, it was epic.

And it was about to become so much cooler. Chris grinned, and looked up at the ceiling. He waved his hand and the ceiling shimmered, appearing to become half-transparent, but only to him. The voices from above sank through clearly and he could see Kit leaning in closer to Perry as Kit pulled study materials from his dust-covered satchel.

"-I had no idea wordsmiths were still so prevalent," Perry was saying.

"I had no idea the Book of Night with Moon was human now," Kit returned inexplicably. Kit was so going to have to explain that later.

"Yes. About that- Don't tell Chris," Perry said, his voice low.

Chris stared. _What?_

"I kind of already have," Kit said. Perry frowned and his face instantly went two shades paler and his eyes widened. Kit flashed a smile that was almost shark-like. "After all, you and he are the same person, aren't you? You have the same power signature." If Perry had gone white before, now he looked positively gray at Kit's words. "What's the matter?" Kit baited, with a sideways glance. "Did I not tell you I was a wizard in your timeline? I not trust you enough, or something?"

"Something like that," Perry muttered in that same low, quiet tone so no one could overhear, and Chris's heart _hurt_ at that because it was a confession, it was a damned confession, it wasn't quite 'my name's not Perry, it's Chris, Chris Halliwell', but it was _oh_ so close and it couldn't feel any worse than dying, it _couldn't_, it couldn't get much worse, except then Perry added, "You died when I was thirteen like everyone else goddamned did, and you can't believe how much it hurt, so if you hurt Chris with this now I'm going to rip your throat out, wordsmith or not-"

Chris waved off the barrier quickly, his eyes burning. He couldn't take any more. He stared at the ceiling like it would answer all of his questions, and almost didn't notice when his bedroom door opened. He looked across to see Wyatt. His heart sank – he couldn't bear any more pain, if anything else hurt, Chris thought he might even die. Well, he was being melodramatic. But he would break, Chris was certain.

"I-" Wyatt looked small in Chris's doorway, which was ridiculous, because Wyatt was a _basketball_ player. "I'm really sorry I boasted about Alice when I should have listened to you. It's really cool you got the part in the musical."

Chris did what any normal person would do in the circumstances – he promptly burst into tears.

"Dude," Wyatt said, his voice strained. "I don't want you to cry!"

Chris cried harder in response, feeling utterly and completely lame.

"Hey," Wyatt said, soft and urgent, and then Chris's bed dipped, and he was being pulled into a hug, which was totally bizarre, because Chris hadn't been hugged in so long. In so long. Or was it _ever_? Chris and Wyatt had both held Adam this way, that was for sure – but Chris's brain was broken, so he could held on and cried. Wyatt made a shushing noise.

After about five minutes of stormy embarrassing emo weeping, Chris pulled back, and buried his face in a handful of tissues while Wyatt tried to give him a manly pat on the back.

"So is it your time of month?" Wyatt asked weakly, when Chris was finished wiping his face. Chris narrowed his eyes and punched Wyatt solidly in the arm.

"No," Chris said. He steeled himself. He'd already embarrassed himself a thousand times over. He looked across at his brother and asked probably one of the scariest questions he would ever ask in his life. "Do you think mom and Uncle Perry and Aunt Phoebe and Aunt Paige are keeping a secret from us?"

Wyatt frowned. "No. Unless you mean that book thing Kit said to Uncle Perry?"

Chris bit his lip, worried about the possible response, but he forged ahead anyway. It was Kit who had speculated Chris was not alone in being lied to. Now he just had to see whether Wyatt was going to be with him or – Chris breathed in and it burned – against him.

"No," Chris said. He schooled his breathing and looked Wyatt in the eye. "I mean something _else_ about Uncle Perry. I mean-" the sudden thought hit him "-maybe it is about the book. But something doesn't add up in this family. And I think it has something to do with Uncle Perry."

Wyatt looked like his frown was going to become a permanent feature of his face, and he sighed, but said, "Go on. I'm listening."

Chris smiled at his brother, a humourless smile, and began to talk…

* * *

To be continued. No, really.


	5. Chapter the Fifth

**Unwell**

Sequel to "Neurotic". Everyone thinks they know Christopher Paul Halliwell. What he likes. Who he likes. What he wants to do in the future. But when the devastating truth about his Uncle Perry is revealed, what will he do?

Disclaimer: If Charmed belonged to me, Chris would have his own spin-off. Does he? NO. So does Charmed belong to me? … NO. Young Wizards™ also does not belong to me. Kudos to all who figured out where Kit was from. :D

Author's Notes: OMG HAHA people do still want to read this. I'm sorta surprised after the wait I gave you! But this thing has to be finished, because Unwell!Chris honestly lives in my head daily. And I'm getting tired at him whining at me, y'know?

MoonGoddessShadow – it's in my profile that I'm British. Uh, if you don't have metres in America what do you have? *clueless* Let me know and I'll fix it! :)

And. Uh. Well. Two years is a really long time! I totally forgot Alicia should be called Alice. And I _knew_ Wyatt played basketball too, really, I did. D'ohhh. Sorry about the slip up! I'll go back and fix the mistakes ASAP!

Thank you so much for not forgetting about me. xx

----

Chapter the Fifth

"Hurt"

-----

"Everybody hurts."

R.E.M.

-----

Perry was pretty much sure a bomb had just hit the family. Although there was no physical evidence, no black scorch marks up the walls, nobody suffering from a burn, everyone seemed to have the same dazed look as surviving victims of a bomb blast seemed to have. Chris's uncharacteristic outburst rang in their ears like tinnitus. Piper had tried to call Chris back, but Wyatt actually pushed her away slightly and stormed down the stairs after his brother, and the rest of them, well, it was like they were stuck in the kitchen.

Over at the table, Kit was placidly pulling out textbooks, as if nothing was wrong. Perry tried to covertly study him. Kit hadn't survived past the age of thirteen - a couple of months after meeting Chris in that timeline. Kit must have been one of the wordsmiths that tried to infiltrate the city. Eventually they took a large chunk out of one of Wyatt's headquarters before Wyatt tracked them all down and killed them – Kit must have just been one of the unfortunate early victims.

Perry had assumed, of course, that Kit was his friend, and Wyatt was just trying to teach him that eternal lesson - that he was not allowed any friends, not allowed anything good in his life. Even now that lesson was hard to shake off - even though he fought it hard in the waking hours, it haunted his nightmares. Like that one the previous night, in the graveyard, when he watched his younger self walk with his Grandpa past those graves. It wasn't a perfect memory - Perry found his later knowledge altered his memory dreams, made it all the worse that Paul was Paige's and not Piper's, because his memory reconstructed itself as if he should have known, as if he should have always known, even though it had been hidden so well.

He'd even - for a moment - felt extremely paranoid that he was being watched in his dream. Perhaps it was because he had felt under surveillance even back then, almost constantly since the fateful day in the tunnels with the cherry blossom and the ink dark water. The fateful day Wyatt took his evil and went beyond _everything_, ripping the Power of Three out of existence with the flash of a sword he should not have ever been allowed access to.

Perry shuddered, didn't realise he'd blanked out the room in his reminiscing, and was surprised to see Kit by his elbow.

Kit looked exactly as Perry had assumed he would when older, his dark hair a tumbling contrast to his olive skin, dark eyes warm with a hint of mischief, eyebrows tilted slightly, as if he was always asking a question of the world.

"Hi there," Kit said, his voice low with amusement.

Perry hadn't run into anyone new for a while that was alive in this timeline that had died tragically in his timeline. It flummoxed him. Kit had started to be a really good friend, before Wyatt had him killed. Perry felt Kit's dark eyes on him in curiosity, and didn't want to hesitate too long, because he worried that with all the secrets he had they might just spill onto his face, and Kit had always been extremely observant. Perry doubted that was due to nurture and believed it very much t of Kit's nature, so chances are, if Perry hesitated too long, Kit would read him like - apparently pun intended - a book. Still, here he was hesitating too long - Perry resorted to the equivalent of magic small talk. "I had no idea wordsmiths were still so prevalent," Perry said.

"I had no idea the Book of Night with Moon was human now," Kit returned simply.

Perry's insides abruptly knotted. There was a time when he was working for (as head of, really) the Resistance, and he'd been living a double life, and his days were filled with these stomach swooping moments when he was sure the jig was up and his life was over. He hadn't had a stomach dropping moment in so long that this one was unexpected and it _hurt_.

"Yes. About that- Don't tell Chris," Perry said, his voice low, his terror at Chris finding out barely contained, because if Chris knew, if Chris knew he _was_ Chris, then not even the Angel of Destiny knew what would happen next.

"I kind of already have," Kit said. Perry didn't like to be surprised, but his eyes widened before he could help it. Kit flashed a smile at him that was almost shark-like. "After all, you and he are the same person, aren't you? You have the same power signature. What's the matter?" Kit baited, with a sideways glance. "Did I not tell you I was a wizard in your timeline? I not trust you enough, or something?"

The question stung. No, Kit hadn't told him. No, Kit hadn't trusted him enough. _But he obviously trusts Chris. So your life is better, Chris, it is, that's what makes all this worth it._

"Something like that." Perry kept his voice low so no one could overhear, but he wanted to shout and scream and the pain of it burned his throat and he clenched the bench and almost just the thought the guilt of it felt worse than dying. Even though it wasn't Kit's fault at all, his confusion over Chris's outburst and Kit's appearance made him snap out, "You died when I was thirteen like everyone else goddamned did, and you can't believe how much it hurt, so if you hurt Chris with this now I'm going to rip your throat out, wordsmith or not, you understand me?"

Okay, so maybe he'd not been as quiet as he hoped.

"What on earth's going on?" Dan, as always, leapt to the front of the others - a trait Paige was trying to cure him of as he refused to even try and learn any defensive spells, but as yet to no avail.

Kit just smiled that strange shark-like smile again. He looked sideways at Dan. "I know more than Mr. Halliwell is comfortable with, is all." He looked back at Perry. "I won't tell Chris anything he doesn't already know, don't worry."

"What do you know?" Sam instantly asked.

Perry looked at him angrily, helplessly. Things were unravelling, only a little, but he couldn't let them unravel any further. He shot a heated look at Piper for guidance.

"Perry's path crossed with the wordsmiths a while back, Sam," Piper said, thankfully taking the hint. She turned to her nephew and touched his arm, guaranteeing all of Sam's attention on her. "There's a... book. And Perry managed to stop the bad things it could have done, including. well. Chris nearly died."

"_What_?" Sam looked at her unhappily, then at Kit.

"It's not my fault!" Kit folded his arms across his chest.

"I go away for one week and this family goes cuckoo crazy," Sam muttered.

"Well," Alice said, from where she had been sat on her chair rather awkwardly now Wyatt had gone to talk to Chris, "it's more like _Chris_ has gone a little cuckoo crazy if you ask me."

Perry couldn't help it. His power lashed out before he could bring it in, and the lightbulb exploded, shattering glass and electrical sparks everywhere before plunging the room into semi-darkness. The bulbs from the dining room still kept the room light enough to see. "Don't you dare _ever_ say that in this house." He meant to speak it - instead it came out as a strange sort of scream. Alice looked absolutely terrified. And now everyone was looking at him, worried. _Probably thinking both of us have gone crazy, but I can't stand it, I couldn't stand it if he was falsely accused of it too, I can't, I can't_. "I won't have that said," he repeated, stubbornly, feeling completely wretched - especially when Adam just crumpled into a ball. Piper shot him a look over Adam's head that was one of forgiveness - which of course made him feel even _worse_ - and he knew Paige, Cole, Dan and his Grandpa understood - but Sam, Kit, Alice and even Bianca were looking at him strangely.

Which was fair enough.

"I'm sorry," Alice said. "I didn't mean it in a bad way. More like it's just a little out of character to be- well, to be so himself in front of everyone."

Perry blinked at her.

"So _himself_?" Sam questioned, hands on his hips as he looked down at her. "So wallflower Chris is an act? I think I like him more than ever." Sam looked impressed. He looked curiously at Alice. "He's normally that sassy and confident? Then why he's so meek to all of us?"

"Because you don't see him," Kit said, and his voice was sad. "You have so much going on with your lives as the Charmed Ones that somehow, you missed him out. Just because he smiles and says what you want to hear. Tell me, when was the last time you asked him if he was okay and got an answer other than fine?"

"Just earlier," Sam said, but he was the only one.

"I notice him, I do, of course I notice him, he's my _son_," Piper said, somewhat unhappily, and the distressed note in her tone made Adam start to rock in her arms. She pulled him even closer.

"You notice Chris," Kit said, looking sideways at Perry for one second pointedly, before looking at them all heatedly. "You don't notice _Chris_." The subtle inflection was enough for Perry, and enough for all of those in the know - but subtle enough so those who didn't know remained in the dark and consequently rather confused.

"I've had enough of you." Paige folded her arms and stepped closer to Kit, narrowing her eyes. "You burst in here, all weird magic power and talking about visiting the _moon_, and saying you know Chris better than all of us, and we don't even know if we can trust you. You're an unknown factor and I strongly dislike unknown factors."

Kit kept his cool and stared at Paige. "I _do_ know Chris better than all of you. And I know you're lucky - he's a hell of a boy. And you're overlooking him because you think you know him, but I promise you - you don't know him at all. So if you want to look at an unknown factor, you might want to start with him. And start wondering why that is."

Perry couldn't move. He couldn't. Perhaps the word was stricken, he wasn't sure. But if what Kit was saying was right, if Chris put on that meek unassuming ordinary attitude for some reason, if he felt he had to _hide_ who he was- There wasn't any reason for it, Perry was certain, Chris had a happy home to go to, no one was evil or trying to kill them (at from the usual suspects), but there was no _reason_ for Chris to have to hide who he was.

Unless it was true, and for some reason - for some reason, and Perry hadn't noticed, the rest of the family didn't see Chris, they didn't _see_ him because - to them - he was already there.

Horror choked him, and he swayed a little, his back connecting with the cooker. He thought back for the last eighteen years, to all the conversations he had with the rest of the family. _Were you this obsessed with music at that age?_ Piper had asked, just the previous day. He had answered, and Piper had said she wouldn't worry then, so- so- so- Of _course_ she wouldn't go and ask Chris afterwards. She wouldn't spend the time bonding with him to find out how much music _was_ part of his life. Why would she when she already knew?

Everything in Perry closed down - he felt broken. He stared ahead but couldn't take in a single thing.

All he wanted was for Chris to have the life he could never have had. It was all he wanted in life. And he'd selfishly stuck around because he was weak and spineless and greedy, and now look at what had happened. They all thought they knew Chris because they knew _Perry_, and didn't take the time to find out for sure. Chris must feel completely abandoned, and, and, and, yes, okay, Perry never _had_ his family around for the full time so his abandonment issues were clear, but how much worse must it be for your whole family to be there and for none of them to pay any real attention to you?

He was vaguely aware of Cole suddenly moving to his side, shaking him a little, but he was too numb. He shook his head a little, taking in the worried glances of his family, and he hated it, hated it completely - Chris was the one who needed their love and attention, not him, they should stop wasting it on _him_.

"I have to fix this," Perry said, and did the only reasonable thing he could think of in the situation.

He fled.

------

Chris dried his eyes and pulled away from his brother, keeping his eyes downcast and feeling his cheeks heat up. He'd told the story of what he knew as tersely as possible, and Wyatt had taken it so well, none of those plastic forced expressions he got from his family when he is positive he's been lied to. Wyatt genuinely didn't know, and Chris couldn't express the surge of joy he felt at that news. _Or are you just happy that you're not completely alone? You're the only one they didn't trust with the truth?_

"You're either batshit completely off your rocker strange, or-" Wyatt frowned and tried to think of a nice way to say an alternative. "Or not." Well, Wyatt had always had trouble expanding his vocabulary.

Chris was much too relieved at the genuine reaction of his brother to really say much more. He'd been so scared that he would school his face and expression and responses like he realised everyone had been doing to him his whole life that it felt like he'd been unable to breathe and only now was he allowed oxygen.

"It's. well. JUST like them," Wyatt added, almost murderously. He pursed his lips, and then looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. He edged a look at Chris. "So you sure I was Evil Overlord of the West in this alternate timeline? Because that's pretty messed up."

"I'm sure," Chris said, a little nervously, because he'd thought Wyatt would react in the usual way he did when he was angry – shout, yell, break things – so this uncertain tone from his brother was disconcerting. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure you were possessed, or raised by demons, or something like that in your timeline. I overheard Perry saying _everyone died when I was thirteen_."

"I was, like, fourteen and a mass murderer?" Wyatt's eyes bugged slightly. "No way. That's kind of cool."

Chris shot him a weird look.

Wyatt held his hands up. "But not! Not cool whatsoever, no sirree."

"Okay, it's a little cool." Chris rolled his eyes and shook his head. "So, what do you think? You think I'm right?"

Wyatt quietened. "Yeah. I really kinda do. And it sucks out loud. Because-" He looked at Chris, miserable. "I do see you, you know."

Chris squirmed, uncomfortable, and then decided to get right to the point – he'd cried, made himself the centre of attention _and_ voiced his idea of the truth to someone who was possibly Hitler and Genghis Khan and Stalin rolled into one in an alternate timeline. What was a deluge of sappy _Days of Our Lives_-esque moments compared to that? "Then why have you been ignoring me?"

"Dude," Wyatt said, his default expression. "You're always so busy with music practice! And you skip all my basketball games-"

"-there's a perfectly valid response for that," Chris interjected.

"And," Wyatt continued, "you were the last person to date my girlfriend and now you're going to act all lovey dovey with her on stage."

His brother, Chris thought guiltily, definitely had a point. He flushed, awkward. "Alice is- I hate her, Wy. I do. It's going to take me a while to get over that hate. But I'm trying. For you. Because I know how much she means to you. And your taste in girls sucks ass."

Wyatt punched him in the arm quite hard. Chris let him – he kind of deserved it. "We have the same taste, obviously," he muttered, mutinously. "But I-" He shrugged. "I guess I should have come and cleared the air about her. It really was, uh, unfortunate the way she dumped you."

"By making out with you? On _my_ bed?"

"Uh," Wyatt said, guiltily.

"It's okay. 'sides, I'm pretty sure she's an evil hellbitch anyway. If anyone could tame her…" Chris half-smiled at Wyatt. Wyatt rolled his eyes to the ceiling but smiled back.

"What is the valid reason for you missing my games, though?" Wyatt was genuinely curious.

"Uh," Chris said, floundered, and pulled a face. "Because I got captain of the cheerleading squad? Oh, and the other night I had to sing for the mayor."

Wyatt looked almost cross-eyed for a long moment.

"Has this been too much information all at once?" Chris asked.

"Understatement." Wyatt sounded winded. "But it does explain how you're the most popular kid in school now."

"What now?" Chris snorted. "I'm the biggest performing arts geek on campus. Girls look at me funny all the time, like I'm the biggest freak in the world."

"Ah, I finally know something you don't!" Wyatt crowed.

Chris frowned at him.

"Let me bask in it for a moment," Wyatt added, grumpy.

Chris waited.

"Chris," Wyatt said slowly, "the girls stare at you because they think you're hot. Not because they think you're a freak."

Chris stared.

"What?"

"They think you're hot, idiot."

Chris stared some more. "But-"

"No buts," Wyatt said. "Huh. I guess it really makes sense now – why all the cheerleaders go _oh, you're Chris's brother_."

"They think I'm _what_?" Chris said.

Wyatt looked amused. "Okay, so your brain coped fine with being completely and utterly betrayed by the grown ups in this family, but it breaks on _this_?"

Chris shrugged. "Please. Like anyone's ever accused me of being _smart_."

"True," Wyatt said.

Chris shrieked in fake indignation and fake punched him in the arm as hard as he could.

Wyatt squealed like a girl (later he would deny it) and moved to put his brother in a headlock. Chris was in the middle of smacking him back with his pillow when the door opened, and Alice cleared her throat noisily.

"We're busy in here," Wyatt said, a little shortly. Chris looked at him in surprise. Whenever he'd had small chats with Wyatt in the far past, as soon as someone had interrupted them, Wyatt had instantly gone off with them - he'd never chosen Chris before over _anything_. Chris had told himself in the past that he hadn't _wanted_ Wyatt to choose him over anything - but the feeling was amazing.

"I'm sorry," Alice said. "But we need your help. Perry's gone."

Wyatt frowned. "He's left before for small stretches, he'll come back." He turned back to Chris.

"He's never really left like this before," Alice pressed. "He seemed all weird and angsty and was blaming your emo spaz attack-" She glanced derisively at Chris. "-on himself for some bizarre reason."

"The jerk is to blame," Wyatt said, heatedly.

Alice looked at him confused. "Huh?"

"After what he's done-" Wyatt blurted, but stopped when Chris touched his arm.

"I don't think he meant me harm. He had a really tough childhood, believe me, it's not his fault," Chris said amiably.

Wyatt frowned at him. "Have you always done that? Said peaceable things when I know you're feeling crazy angry?"

"Uh-" Chris said, helpfully.

"Yep," Alice said. "He's good at it."

"You've got to stop it," Wyatt said, shooting a small dark look at Alice, before looking back at Chris. "I'm kinda glad he's gone. I don't think I could face him."

"_You can't say anything_," Chris hissed, tugging at his sleeve.

"Can't say _what_?" Alice squealed.

"Promise me, Wyatt." Chris tugged his brother closer, ignoring Alice's exasperated sighs. He stared at Wyatt desperately.

"Okay," Wyatt said. "I promise."

"Right." Chris let him go. "Let's go find Uncle Perry."

He got up off the bed as Alice breathed "_finally_", but didn't feel better until Wyatt muttered mutinously, "Well, we'll pretend to go look for him" under his breath, only loud enough for Chris to hear. The sudden smile that swept onto his face when he heard it felt unfamiliar, like it maybe cracked his face a little, but it felt good too. _Maybe this is what family's supposed to be about_. _Little things that make you happy. Not lies that tear you apart._ He rolled the thought about in his head for a while, but he couldn't stop thinking it, and faltered on the bottom step leading up the ground floor.

"I'm, uh, I'm just going to go to bed, okay?" Chris said, shying away at the last minute.

Alice sighed audibly. Wyatt paused on the steps, and looked down at Chris. The obvious worry on his face was almost too much for Chris to process. "Are you okay?" Wyatt asked, and added quickly, "_and don't say fine_."

"I'm-" The lie of _fine_ was half-way out of his mouth already, but he choked it back in and looked up at Wyatt gratefully. "I'm going to be fine."

Wyatt looked torn, like he was going to stay, but nodded at Chris and turned away. Chris watched him go and went back to his room slowly, his conversation with Wyatt going round and round in his head.

It was good that the thing with Alice had been mostly cleared up – it was long overdue. He'd dated Alice for nearly a year, but had never been able to bring himself to kiss her. He told her again and again it was because he was _waiting_, but obviously Alice had translated that as thinking she was a freak or unattractive. It wasn't the case – Chris had genuinely adored her. Until the _making out with his brother on his bed _thing, that is.

He'd been lying to her the whole time, though, he could admit that to himself now. He'd dated her because he was trying to put Bianca out of his head. She was clearly enamoured with Perry – she had shown that the other night by shoving herself away from him to drape herself all over Perry – and that just made it all _worse_, because Perry was _him_. Chris remembered the way Perry looked at Bianca, and his stomach curled.

Perry looked at Bianca the way Wyatt looked at Alice. The way his stupid dad looked at Piper when he was around. The way Cole looked at Phoebe. And Bianca looked _back_ at Perry that way.

Was he so unlovable? Was there something so disgusting and wrong with him that his older, alternate self who had gone through such childhood trauma – and obviously not come out undamaged (Uncle—Perry was neurotic as hell, and overly paranoid – one didn't get that way being fed cookies and sunshine as a child, and obviously now it was because of his older brother single-handedly wrecking the world)--- Perry was _damaged_, and Bianca preferred that over him.

_Because I'm damaged too. And somehow, I'm damaged_ worse.

He sank onto his bed, staring hollowly at the wall. Was that why he did so much? The cheerleading, his piano, singing, dancing, performing… It all occupied his brain, gave him something to do, so he didn't look too hard into why he kept the same mask on around his family and swapped it out for a different one when they weren't around. It was just how he was.

Except, it wasn't. It was because he was pushing everything down, because he didn't want the pain that would come with self psychoanalysis. He stayed busy, ridiculously busy, and the stupid crux of it all was that he didn't actually know whether he enjoyed it or not. He was good at it – scratch that, he was awesome. He enjoyed the adulation from some people who really appreciated how good he was. But he'd probably never sat down and decided what to do with his life – it was more, _what can I do now? What can I fill these gaps in with?_ and it had all fallen into place.

_I don't even know who I am_.

The tears wanted to fall again, but Chris had none left to shed – he curled up on his bed instead, and shook into his pillow, his whole body racked with the jerking movement of the denied tears.

The tremors stopped eventually. When Chris raised his head, he knew two things – one, his head really hurt, and two, it was three AM in the morning.

He was worn out, more physically worn out than on a Tuesday (which was piano lesson before school, two hours maths, one hour biology, singing practice, one hour gymnastics, one hour dance, one hour cross country, one hour musical theatre, cheerleading practice until six) which really was saying something. Chris pulled himself under the covers, not even bothering to dress for bed, and tried to sleep.

And tried.

And tried.

But try as he might, for five hours, Chris couldn't sleep.

He forced his body into the shower at eight, orbing himself right to the bathroom door so he didn't have to run into anyone and thankfully the bathroom was free, and he orbed himself back to his bedroom after, feeling stiff but a little more able to move after the shower.

Chris dressed in his cheerleading outfit, feeling rebellious and hurt and somehow _numb_ too - because what else did he have to hide? His whole life was a lie anyway – and picking up his school bag, he pushed his door open and climbed the stairs to the top, passing Cole and Dan sparring as he did. He ignored them, even though Dan asked how he was, which would have made him smile, except now they were _forcing _it, they didn't _want_ to notice him, they just felt guilty and were trying to make up for not doing it naturally before now, and he was just entertaining the thought of being able to make it out to school without being noticed when he pushed open the door.

Piper was sat at the kitchen island, nursing a coffee.

She looked as awake as Chris felt.

Chris stopped at the edge of the kitchen awkwardly. His bag dropped from his hands to the floor – he didn't have the strength to hold it any longer. He swallowed, and then looked up at her, almost sheepishly. He was scared of her reaction. Her face was pale, and her eyes dark around it, like her mascara had smudged really badly. Except she wasn't wearing make up, not even lip gloss.

"Hi," Chris said, but the crying had the unfortunate side effect of making his throat a little sore (Mrs. Williamson – _Prue_ – was going to be so pleased with him---- but wait, she had reacted like she knew Perry's secret too, so he didn't care a whit what she thought, she could go to hell with the rest of them) so his hi came out somewhat broken. He flushed, toed the tiles awkwardly, and tried again to speak. "Uh. Did Uncle Perry come back?"

Piper looked at him, her head tilted. "No. I'm sure he'll be back when he's calmed down. Are you-" She looked timid, shell-shocked, like she'd been crying all night. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Chris responded automatically. Piper nodded, moved as if to turn her head, but froze mid-action, and frowned. Her hand clenched a little on her knee and she turned her head fully to face him.

"The truth?" Piper's voice was thin, winded.

"Really tired. I couldn't sleep."

"Familial trait, I'm afraid. I can never sleep after any sort of conflict, however slight." Her eyes raked his face, as if maybe the answer to why everything was wrong was on it. She stared at him, and then pushed her coffee towards him. "Some caffeine might help?"

"Uh. No thanks. Caffeine might stunt my growth."

Piper stared at him as if he'd said something odd. _I did_, Chris realised. _I said what I wanted to, not what I thought would make her smile, would make her day a little better_.

"Like you need to grow any taller." Piper's lame attempt at a joke would be better if she didn't sound like she was going to cry when she said it – still, Chris appreciated the effort.

"I have to go to school now," Chris said, and turned to go. He didn't want to stay in the same awkward stalemate it seemed they were locked in, and besides, if he didn't go soon he _would_ be late.

"Wait, wait." Chris turned at the sound of her stool skittering across the tiles, and turned wide surprised eyes to Piper as she grabbed hold of his by the elbows. She looked at him like she was memorising his face, like it was the last time she was going to see him again. "Baby," Piper said, her voice like broken glass, tears staying unshed in her eyes. "We're going to fix this, I promise. We're going to fix us."

Chris looked at her wordlessly.

"However long it takes," Piper promised, fervently. "You and Wyatt and Adam, you are everything to me. _Everything_. I would die for you."

_Maybe, in the past, you already did. But that wasn't for _me, _that would have been for Perry_. Chris shrugged. The anger was still too strong. He didn't want to speak – either he would come out with the same sort of banality he was used to, or he would start screaming.

The truth needed more effort. He forced it out. "I never wanted to cause you any more hassle than you already had. I thought I was okay with you never noticing me, only noticing Wyatt and Adam, because- god, I love them both more than anything, I mean-" Chris had wanted to keep his composure, because he had a day full of school to get through, but his body seemed to want to betray him too. He shut up, instead of breaking down.

"I just-" Piper looked down at the floor, then back at him. "I have to know why you thought you had to lie to us, why you thought you had to pretend you were someone you're not, because I love _you_, however you turn out, whatever you want to do, I don't need you to lie for me. Just having you okay gives me strength."

Chris let his head fall back for a moment, his eyes shutting. He exhaled, the pain of the whole situation twisting a skewed smile onto his face. When he opened his eyes again, Piper was looking at him desperately.

"I lied because-" he started, but then the doors to the manor clattered open. Chris tried to open his mouth to continue regardless, but Piper's eyes automatically left his face to see who it was, and Chris reacted instinctively. He _knew_ they had to be vigilant, because demons could attack any time, but this was just _typical_. The moment he tried to be completely, absolutely honest, something interrupted him and the moment was always lost.

It was Phoebe, clattering in with a bunch of suitcases. Chris hadn't realised she'd been away. It must have been some overnight business thing, he figured. Phoebe was pretty much an international celebrity now.

"_Piper_! You'll never guess who I saw at the airport, you never will guess it, I mean I was pretty mad at Paige not orbing me down, but this was _so _worth it-"

"I have to go to school now," Chris said, breaking away from Piper and picking his bag back up.

"_Chris_," Piper said, pleadingly, but Chris just pushed past Phoebe and went out the door.

"I'll be later," he said.

Piper ran forwards. "_Chris_, please, don't go. Not like this-"

Phoebe managed to move aside to let Piper past, but she looked terribly confused. "What's going on?"

"It's a Thursday, I'll be back after seven," Chris said, and clattered out of the door.

The door was slow to close, so Chris heard Phoebe say, "What's going on? And since when was Chris a cheerleader?"

Out of all his aunts, Chris could maybe have excused Phoebe for not noticing him – she only noticed fashion, really, when she was busy, and she was busy all the time. So it stood to reason that _she_ would notice what he was wearing. Still, he felt angry. He shouldn't be grateful for such a tiny scrap of attention from his family. Over the years he had told himself again and again that he hadn't _wanted_ their attention, he hadn't _needed_ it. But obviously he did, if he responded to just the tiniest sign that he was actually part of the family after all.

Chris sighed, and ducked into the nearest best hiding spot to orb. His power activated easily and he jetted over towards the school, intent on one thing – to find and talk to Kit. Kit had called Perry some sort of book and hadn't explained, and Chris needed to know as much about Perry as he could.

_Or maybe I'm just trying to distract myself, give myself something to do so I don't have to think, so I don't _have_ to feel_. In a way, it was running away. Chris thought angrily about Perry, and realised that maybe, running away was just what Chris Halliwells _did_.

-----

To be continued


End file.
